


Incarcerus

by qqueenofhades



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:22:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 261,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Vampire and bail bondsperson Emma Swan is drawn into a supernatural murder mystery that entangles her with strange forces, dark secrets, a far-too-charming, handsome, and enigmatic fellow vampire named Killian Jones, and the ultimate questions of how to start a blog on Fangd, get a parking spot in Boston, and avert an immortal war. She is confident love is nowhere in the plan. COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I am a vampire._

_It's not all it's cracked up to be._

_In fact, and you probably saw this pun coming a mile off:_

_It usually kind of sucks._

Emma sat staring at the computer screen until her eyes crossed, she leaned back in her chair with an aggravated noise, and deleted the text, only to find nothing more scintillating to take its place. Then she was left performing the frustrated writer's gaze upon the abyss of blank-white doom, which was even worse, so she typed it back in again, tried to think of synonyms with more syllables, made a louder noise of aggravation, and deleted them for the second time. This was pointless anyway. Nobody was going to read this blog even if she started it, those that did weren't liable to be happy with her for it, and she had not a single scrap of penetrating or original insight to help anyone who might find themselves thrust unpleasantly into this new situation, which was the reason she'd had this whole godforsaken idea in the first place. They didn't exactly hand out "So Now You're a Vampire, How To Not Fuck Up Your Afterlife" how-to guides, and considering the hash she'd made of her previous one, she was probably the least qualified individual to think about offering advice on this one. Still, though. She'd had a moment of believing she could be useful; they came along every so often, long after the last one had died of loneliness. That she could try to build a support group for people who did what sensible people did in this day and age, when their entire life turned upside down and they had no idea how to deal with it: Google that shit and complain about their problems online, just like everyone else. Connect over similar interests. If in this case it happened to be the fact that you were now an immortal blood-drinking unholy creature of night and terror instead of some ordinary hobby like TV shows or collector cars or pictures of cats doing dumb things, not that different. But she'd just been deluding herself. As usual.

After a moment, Emma closed out of the browser window, then clicked her dash through a perfunctory refresh. Figuring out what to name a social media site for supernaturals had taken, possibly fittingly, a truly legendary effort. At first it had just been Fangbook, until the werewolves objected that this was discriminatory, and attempted to start Furbook in revenge, which had not worked out for them; it was remembered as the MySpace of the equation, and besides, it sounded like the home of disturbing niche porn. Fangstagram was, for obvious reasons, out, as vampires and cameras generally rendered each other obsolete, and a Twitter full of actual wolves might be even worse than the regular one. Their manifold networking difficulties had finally arrived at a compromise in the form of their current vehicle: Fangd. To avoid a second go-round of the nomenclatorial dilemma, it had been pointed out that both vampires _and_ werewolves had fangs, and besides, it sounded cool. Currently, it was mostly used for chat posts, arranging feeds, perusing heavily filtered photos of buff shirtless werewolves, and the inevitable casual hookups section, as well as worthless shit to buy (all products promising to increase a vampire's tolerance to sunlight were to be filed in the same category as penis-enhancement-pill spam emails).

As far as Emma had found, admittance to the supernatural set seemed to function along the same rules as your first day at high school: asking for help marked you out as the newbie, and in this case, the cool kids snacking on you might not be at all a figure of speech. So everyone, even if they didn't, acted like they knew exactly what they were doing. And the high school comparison could be depressingly apt, considering that all-powerful immortals with hundreds of years of age and experience at their disposal could still hold the pettiest of ridiculous grudges. The "blood feud" and "perpetual enemies" things were _way_ overblown, but stuff did happen. Another reason Emma had wanted to start the blog. Immortal did not by any stretch of the imagination mean indestructible, and plenty of clueless newcomers got caught in the crossfire of the power struggles between the older ones. Then there were the simply stupid ones. You couldn't be killed by the same things as before, no, but you could still Darwin Award yourself out of the running.

Emma pushed the computer chair back and stood, yawning and shuffling off to the kitchen. It was near sunrise; she would have been able to tell even without the clock. That bit about frying in the dawn's first light was yet another myth; even Emma, a baby as vampires went (she had been turned in 1993 at the age of twenty-eight, thus ensuring that in a race of beings who had witnessed the greatest events of history with their own eyes, she would preside over the era of Justin Bieber, selfies, and Netflix) could have endured a few minutes outside. Probably not at high noon, and she wouldn't feel great if she did, but it was still possible, and sometimes she liked to stay up to see the sunrise, to try to remember in the barest bit what it had felt like, living. The oldest and strongest ones could supposedly manage an entire day, but Emma had never met anyone _that_ strong. Probably for the best. They tended to be the type who left those body trails.

Emma opened the fridge and rummaged through the shelves. Like any single person, she had old pizza boxes and cartons of Chinese takeout and other such things; she could chew them for the taste all she wanted, she just couldn't actually eat it. The older a vampire got, the less they craved human food, but sometimes after a shit day, a big old-fashioned bar of chocolate was the only ticket, even if she had to spit it into the trash (a horrible and sacrilegious waste, especially if she'd splurged on the pricey stuff). As far as actual nutrition, vampires had evolved just as many fad diets as their mortal counterparts, and you could buy all the gluten-free, lactose-free, vegetarian, ethically sourced blood replacements you wanted, most of which tasted exactly how you would expect gluten-free, lactose-free, vegetarian, ethically sourced blood replacements to taste. Emma usually had to buy a raw steak to make sure she didn't die of iron deficiency, but while she could get along for weeks or even months in this fashion, eventually she, like the rest of her kind, would have to feed on living human blood. And _that_ deserved its own help guide, Jesus Christ. You were an alpha predator, you were possessed of cold, unnatural beauty and crackling sexual magnetism (no sparkles though, thank God) and helpless humans were drawn into your thrall. . . which was a really big pain in the ass if you were an unsociable introvert who just wanted them to fuck off and leave you alone. Finding a willing partner was never the problem; it was getting to the "so, can I bite your neck and drain your life force?" bit without them thinking you were anything more than particularly kinky or really bad with foreplay. But you had to. There had been a big awareness drive among vampires as to the importance of consent; they stressed that feeding was just like sex, since in many cases it often was, and even if you were desperate, you couldn't just chomp down on Bob from accounting without making sure he was all right with it. (A surprising number of vampires worked in accounting. Emma thought it explained a lot). Only the really worst took it the last, unforgivable step further: turning someone into a vampire without their say-so. Something which she did know a thing or two about.

Emma's mouth tightened as she thumbed open the carton and poured half a glass of ONeg; this stuff was somewhat more palatable than the other brands. If she needed an actual feed, she had given up on trying to arrange it herself, since it always ended up looking like a dinner date (which it was, when your date was dinner). She would just swing by Regina's and borrow one of her drones. The vampire queen of Boston was not a woman to be approached lightly, but after they had gotten off to a very rocky start, and several memorable fights, they had finally grudgingly settled down to an _entente cordiale_ , and Emma knew that if she was ever in a serious jam, she could count on Regina, more or less, to have her back. For obvious reasons, however, she had not run this blog idea past her. She had a feeling Regina wouldn't be a fan.

The light outside was getting greyer, although that could have been just the January gloom. New Year's resolutions weren't really meaningful to immortals, but Emma had still thought it was a good time to try this one. Maybe she'd sleep on it, give it time. She'd probably have a job anyway. The upside of her transformation was that it barely required any adjustment to her work schedule, since bail bondspeople billed most of their hours by night, and also ensured that in just over seven years of working for her current employer, she had a 99.9% success rate in catching the fleeing perp and kicking the shit out of him. (The 0.1% had definitely been another immortal, most likely werewolf, and it hadn't been pretty.) She probably had another five or so years there before her lack of aging and other such supernatural symptoms would get too hard to explain, and she'd have to move on. But Emma didn't want to leave Boston. She had her reasons. She'd have to, though. Eventually.

She finished the ONeg, tossed the glass in the sink, and headed to her bedroom. Undressed in the dimness, hearing the start of morning traffic outside, people on their way to office jobs, ordinary lives. Pulled the blackout curtains shut, crawled under the duvet, and closed her eyes. Vampires didn't dream, which was both a blessing and a curse. Nothing but darkness.

* * *

Emma slept all day and awoke with her alarm beeping 7pm, which she reached out with a groan to muffle. But when she grabbed her phone, there was a message on it, and she squinted, frowned, then mumbled a curse and sat up, running her hands through her tangled hair. She stumbled out of bed and into the shower, dressed and did her makeup, then trotted out into the night. It was cold, damp, slushy and miserable, headlights backed up and horns sounding irritably on the freeway, and it was faster to get where she was going on foot, anyway. As long as she stayed to the shadows, nobody would notice her moving at vampire speed.

Ten minutes later, Emma was standing on the welcome mat of a small bungalow in Cambridge, rapping on the door. It took a moment, but then she sensed footsteps, and it opened. "Mom? Shit, right, I forgot. You get here fast."

"Yeah." Emma blew out a breath. Technically she didn't need to, but it was habit. "It's me. What's up?"

Henry held the door open, remembered he had to invite her, and said, "Come in." Once she stepped over the lintel and into his front hall, the scent of something divine cooking on the stove almost made her knees buckle, and he gave her a guilty look. "I'm sorry. Let me go get that."

"No, it's fine." Emma made her way into the warm, wood-beamed kitchen, trying to carve out a place to sit at the kitchen table piled with papers. Henry was an associate professor of English at Harvard, was revising his new book for publication on a tight deadline, and was still grading final exams from the fall semester, so he wasn't likely to have invited her over just for a pleasant chat. That wasn't their thing, anyway. They had become a lot closer once Henry grew up and learned the truth, but the wounds remained. He'd been only ten when she was turned, and since it quickly proved impossible for a newly made vampire to raise a mortal child or be there for him in any meaningful way, Henry had been placed into the system and, thankfully, quickly adopted by his foster parents, David and Mary Margaret Nolan. He had taken their name, they were the ones to see him receive his Ph.D from Columbia and treat him to dinner to celebrate, and they were the family he spent the holidays with, the human world he had a home and future with. Emma struggled not to resent it, to realize that this was the best for him, but it was still hard.

Henry turned down whatever was bubbling on the stove, seemed to be about to offer her tea out of habit, poured a cup for himself, then sat down across from her. It gave Emma a start to see the first few shoots of grey in his beard. It was no big deal, he was only thirty-two, some people had a touch of dignified silver ever since they were twenty, but it was another reminder that he was now older than her physically, and the gap would only continue to widen. He'd already had to start introducing her to people as his sister; pretty soon he would have to introduce her as his daughter. Then his granddaughter, and. . .

She shook her head. At least she knew that the one thing all parents feared, not being there for their children, would not apply to her. She could be quite sure that she'd be there for him, for everything. Including whatever he was on about now. "So," she said. "You said it's important. What's up?"

Henry pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses, searched through his papers, then pulled out a file. "I'm worried about one of my students. Lily Page. I'm pretty sure she's fallen in with. . . well, with someone who runs in your circles, and not someone who plays by your usual rules. I think she may have also invited this. . . individual into Harvard, and while it's usually a matter of entrance on a building basis, whoever this is seems able to move around campus at will. We've had at least four women from different dormitories report symptoms consistent with feeding, and none of them seemed to know what it was, either. Which if I had to guess, means whoever was snacking on them wasn't bothering to fill them in on it or ask their permission, and probably then bamboozled them into forgetting about it. So. You can probably see why I'm concerned."

Emma looked sharply at her son, as Henry had just casually displayed considerable knowledge of vampire politics and powers – far more than she herself had ever told him, and which made her wonder just how much research he had been doing. If it was true what he was hinting at, however – that a clearly powerful and ruthless rogue had been set loose on the university by this Lily Page, whether knowingly or unknowingly – this would be only the tip of the iceberg. Criminals and murders and general lawbreakers were regarded as dimly in supernatural society as they were in the regular world; this was the modern twenty-first century for Pete's sake, not some remote mountain fortress in medieval Wallachia with Vlad Dracula gleefully staking up hapless peasants. You couldn't just jaunt into an Ivy League and start munching on co-eds. And while Emma was aware that the whole vampire thing was extremely popular with this demographic, Henry had said they didn't seem to know what had happened to them. See, shit like this was why they needed the blog. They needed to educate people so they didn't think they'd just gotten some weird STD or whatever else they'd conclude, never finding out until they had already leapt from the frying pan and into the fire and were in it deep. Though if she posted it on Fangd, it would only be read by other immortals, and if she posted it on any mortal social media network, it would land them in a world of hot water, none of which would end pleasantly for her. Still, though. This was serious.

"All right," Emma said, seeing Henry waiting for her answer. "I'll dig into this, see what I can turn up. In the meantime, salt, silver, holy water – all of those are effective at keeping a vampire out. Though I'm not sure I need to tell you that."

"Covered." Henry held up a silver crucifix on a chain, a small glass vial of salt swinging alongside. Emma felt a faint, reflexive swoop of revulsion and nausea, as if he'd just waved a chemical weapon in her face, and he quickly stuffed it away again. "I hang that over my door whenever I'm in my office, and it seems to work. I haven't been lunch yet."

"Good. Though unless this is a really old one, they will have to do most of their hunting at night, when the faculty has gone home and the students are easy pickings. Is there any way you can, I don't know, get a few extra and sneak them in without Residence Services finding out?"

"I suppose I could try." Henry shrugged. "But how old would a vampire need to be, exactly, to be able to move around by day?"

"I don't know. Probably at least three hundred. And if there was one of those in town, I'm pretty sure Regina would have given me the heads up – or at least raring at the bit to fight them herself. I'll run this by her, see if she's heard anything. I'll let you know."

"Great." Henry drained the last of his tea and stood up. "Well, I've got a ton of work to do, and I'm sure you do too. Good night, Mom – though I guess this is good morning for you, huh?"

"Yeah. Good night, Henry." Emma pecked him quickly on the cheek, grabbed her coat, and stepped out into the deepening chill. The worst of the evening rush hour had passed, though the sleet was still coming down, and she took slightly longer about heading back into town, then toward an elegant nineteenth-century brownstone rowhouse, set on a cobbled, gaslamp-lined lane in Beacon Hill. The average property value here was of the sort that you could only accumulate with a seven-figure annual salary or several lifetimes of carefully planned saving, investing, and spending, building a diversified portfolio and shrewdly exploiting tax loopholes. Queen Regina Mills was of the latter variety, though Emma dimly recalled that she had been born into privilege in the first place. It tended to work that way among vampires, for whatever reason. They ran to the educated, upper class, and wealthy, while werewolves trended rough-and-tumble, blue-collar working poor. Economic disparity usually formed the basis of their grudges these days, rather than any ancient immortal rivalry. Whenever a neighborhood gentrified, the vampires were neck and neck with the hipsters in snapping up newly desirable properties. It was debatable which ones were more annoying neighbors. Hipsters dined on arugula instead of your blood, but at least the vampires didn't go in for retro music nights and farmer's markets.

Emma headed up the front steps, rapped the knocker, and waited. It wasn't usually protocol to call on the queen without first letting her know you were coming by, as unexpected visitors tended to make powerful persons of all stripes feel threatened, but this was urgent enough that she figured Regina would just have to make an exception. Though that didn't stop the butler from looking profoundly aggrieved and put-upon when he opened the door. "Miss Swan, what on earth? You did not notify me that we were supposed to expect a visit from – "

"Stuff it, Sidney. This is important. Is she here or not?"

Sidney looked at her primly, as if to remind her that he could still decline to invite her in and thus presumably teach her a Very Serious Lesson about calling etiquette, but after a moment he sighed and made an only slightly sarcastic gesture. "Do come in then, Miss Swan. Stop the presses news, surely?"

Emma ignored him, pausing to knock the mud off her boots – potential rogue or not, she would be the one to get killed if she fouled up Regina's pristine carpet. Then, footwear sanctity more or less assured, she strode down the hall. She wasn't sure when exactly Regina had been turned, but from her manner and general décor and the occasional oblique reference to her pre-immortal life, it could be estimated as the second half of the 1800s, maybe a decade or so after the Civil War. The queen had been based in New England for most of that time, apparently finessing the problem of not aging by rarely appearing in public and delegating most of the grunt work to her various minions, who could always be counted on to pop up out of the blue just when you thought you'd gotten away with something. But she had considerable power, connections, and bite (in more ways than one) and it was her job to deal with any miscreants running around the Quad, so here Emma was.

She rapped on the French doors of the study, then opened them and stepped in. Regina was eyeing her coolly, stirring something in her porcelain teacup that splashed red; the vampire queen of Boston was not a woman for blood replacements. That had beyond doubt come fresh from the source, whichever of the human drones kept around for Regina's feeding purposes and that of the local vampire population, provided they were in her good graces. Piss her off, and you could be desperately posting your very own Craigslist personals ad for an open-minded partner into some light biting before you knew it. Though she had a healthy respect for Regina's danger on her own, and other good reasons to stay close, Emma had to admit that it was sometimes this circumstance alone which kept her toeing the line. The idea of doing that or braving the hookups section on Fangd every time she needed true sustenance was enough to make her quail.

"Miss Swan." Regina laid the silver spoon on a napkin, which soaked up a fat scarlet stain. "This is a surprise. And you know how I feel about surprises."

"Yeah, yeah." Emma sat on the ottoman across from her. "I promise I'm not here for the company either. But we may have a serious problem."

With that, she laid out what she'd heard from Henry, while making it sound as if it was just something he had mentioned in passing and which she had put the pieces together as possibly being a rogue; she doubted Regina would think too warmly of a human, even one with a vampire mother he knew about and accepted, having all this detailed knowledge of their customs. By the way the faintest of lines etched itself between Regina's exquisitely tweezed black brows, Emma could tell that she had been right not to underestimate the worrying nature of this development. When she finished, however, the queen said, "So is this something you've personally observed, or just lurid campus gossip?"

"Henry seemed pretty concerned. So I don't think it's just a random urban legend, no."

"Be that as it may," Regina said crisply, "I would know if there was a newcomer in town. I don't expect you to be familiar with the protocol, but whenever a vampire moves territory, they have to address themselves to the local queen, rather like an ambassador presenting their credentials. The only ones I've accepted into Boston recently aren't nearly powerful enough to even think of trying something like this."

"Well," Emma said. "I may not be a court-admissible expert on vampire law, but I also think if you were coming here with the specific intent of _not_ following it, that kind of seems like a step you'd skip."

Regina glared at her. "Even so, I would have heard something. I have eyes and ears across the city, someone would report it if there was a loner hunting around Harvard. Do they _like_ the taste of stressed-out teenage trust fund overachievers? Unless it isn't a vampire at all, but someone trying to frame us. This would be a convenient way to scaremonger anti-fang sentiment."

"Look, I don't think so." Emma had forgotten how relentlessly paranoid Regina could be. "Henry said – "

"Yes, your human son, who is probably hopped up on Red Bull and gas station coffee trying to finish his book, noticed that a few college kids had odd injuries they couldn't explain. That's not exactly damning evidence." Regina sipped from the teacup and smiled, her own quite pointed canines catching the light. "It's more likely to be a game of beer pong gone wrong than an Old One. The vampires keep tabs on those, and all of them are, to the best of my knowledge, fully accounted for. Besides, the older a vampire gets, the harder it becomes for them to change territory. They become more anchored, more sedentary, just like human senior citizens. The oldest one I've ever met was almost eight hundred, and he never went out of the house. So even if they did have the power to do something like this, it's far from their instinct to carry it out."

"To the best of your knowledge, they're all accounted for?" Emma said. "How about you check?"

Seeing Regina open her mouth in umbrage, she went on, "Fine, maybe I'm pulling this out of my ass and there's absolutely nothing wrong. Five minutes of research can clear that up and Harvard can start looking for a run-of-the-mill pervert instead of a supernatural one. That's not too much to ask, so how about we start by eliminating the obvious steps first? Trust me. I know how perps think."

"Yes, I suppose you do," Regina said, sounding far from universally approving. "What with that hideous night job of yours. You're wasting yourself hunting down common human criminals, you know. It's like running errands in a Ferrari. But as long as you can promise me that this isn't going to end up as some kind of scandal for us, and more specifically me, I'll send for a status report on the Old Ones and let you know. Now go."

Objective achieved, Emma took her dismissal as graciously as possible and exited. It was getting late enough that the supernaturals' usual haunts would be livening up, but she had another house call to make before she could kick back and relax. This time it was to a weathered clapboard second-story apartment in Dorchester, where her friend Ruby Lucas lived with her girlfriend Mulan. Ruby was a werewolf, true, but she was also the first person who had welcomed Emma into the immortal world and tried to make the terrible transition easier, someone who had cared and tried to help without any kind of agenda or expectation of reward, and those people were so rare in Emma's life that she and Ruby had, improbably, remained fairly close. She waited tables at an all-night diner frequented by the local packs, and as such, had her ear to the ground when it came to any rumblings of trouble among the other half of Boston's supernatural residents. If this rogue was flouting vampire rules about not feeding on unwilling innocents, it was a good bet they were stepping on the wolves' paws as well, or planning to. And while Teeth and Tails lived together more or less in truce these days, it remained a situation fairly comparable to Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. There were places of the one where the other just didn't go, the boundaries were instinctively and sharply known, and it wouldn't take much to stoke the embers. If that happened, the fur was definitely flying, and that never went well. Ever.

After Emma had interrupted Mulan (who was some scary degree of black belt in kung fu) from pummeling a punching bag long enough to ascertain that Ruby was in fact at work tonight, she grimaced and decided to take her chances. Seeing as the diner clientele was predominantly werewolf, they could of course sense what she was, and on her last visit there, some drunk beta had made an impertinent comment – what he said exactly, in fact, was "Nice tits, bloodsucker!" – and no matter the ever-present danger of starting a turf war, Emma had vaulted three booths in the blink of an eye to tie his balls in a bowtie around his throat, or at least make an admirable effort before Granny, the diner owner, also a wolf and a formidable old boot with a very low nonsense tolerance, emphatically put an end to it. She hoped Granny had forgotten about that, although it wasn't likely. Werewolves weren't completely immortal; they did age and eventually die, albeit much slower than humans, and thus the idea of carrying a grudge to the grave was not merely figurative where they were concerned. In fact, forgiveness wasn't anyone's strong suit.

Emma girded herself, reminded herself to be on her best manners, and bounded across the parking lot, pushing the door open. She didn't need to receive explicit permission, as she had been invited in here before, and that was usually sufficient to do the trick with public buildings; it was only private residences where you had to be asked in every time. She briefly wondered if that was sufficient to explain the activities of the Harvard Ripper, if they were perhaps a disaffected alumni turned vampire who had decided to return and wreak vengeance upon the halls of their alma mater, some kind of _Revenge of the Nerds-_ style payback on the Mean Girls. But anyone old enough to do this wouldn't have been at school in the twenty-first century or even the twentieth, so that was likely out.

She braced herself as a wave of bad eighties rock hit her broadside; seeing as werewolves possessed the same hyper-attuned hearing as vampires, she still didn't understand why they had to play their music at top volume. There were a few unfriendly looks from the muscled biker types at the bar, but thankfully Ruby spotted her from across the way, and came zipping up before anyone could start round two. "Emma! What are you doing here?"

"Yeah, I wasn't expecting to be back before next century either." Emma smiled wryly, before launching into her second explanation for the evening as to what Henry had told her. "So," she finished. "You haven't seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, have you?"

"No. Not that I can think of." Ruby frowned, screwing up her face in concentration. "Wait, there was one lady the other night who was a little strange – she wasn't a wolf, I couldn't sense exactly what she was. Human, I think, but not quite."

"Yes?" Emma prompted. "Did she say anything? Do anything?"

"No, she was perfectly civilized. She only drank water, I don't think she ordered any food. I only caught her name in passing – I can't remember what. It was something pretty, a little unusual. Nina? No, that wasn't it. I'm sorry, do you think it was important?"

"Probably not." After all, totally ordinary people could and did stumble into here every day, just wanting to chow down a burger and a shake and completely unaware that they were surrounded by alpha predators in human form. Not that they were ever in any danger; no matter your breed, eating your customers was bad for business, and the werewolves had their own codes of conduct the way the vampires did, although whether the two laws should be joined and modified to create one Immortal Protocol was a question disagreed on annually. "I guess just let me know if you see her again, all right? Thanks, Ruby. Sorry to bother you at work."

Ruby cheerily assured her that it wasn't a problem, and Emma let herself out, trying not to look too closely at the platters of glistening, oven-hot food racing by; while werewolves also preferred their steaks very rare, they could eat all the regular human stuff, as well as go out by day, and sometimes she wondered if she would have been happier if she'd been made a wolf instead. Sure, there was the itsy-bitsy caveat of a painful transformation every full moon, a struggle to control your new monstrous nature so you didn't race out and bloodily devour all the buskers and panhandlers in Boston Common, and the possibility of getting fleas and licking your hindquarters in public, but it felt closer to the human world from Emma's lonely perch. She supposed there was some neat irony in the fact that she had ended up as a vampire, as she did after all prey on others to make her living in more ways than one, and it wasn't like her life was a whirl of sociality beforehand, but still. Considering the circumstances of her transformation, it would even have made more sense if she did, but then, where had it ever gotten her to expect the world to make sense? She'd lived this way (if living it could be called) long enough to know how it worked, to adjust, to get a fairly good idea of how the next few centuries were going to go. Assuming World War III and the nuclear holocaust didn't break out or anything. Living in a world like this, it was hard to imagine much of a future for anyone sometimes.

Emma put her head down against the drizzle and started to walk. Work hadn't called yet, so she supposed she could assume that nobody had jumped bail tonight. A _tr_ _è_ _s chic_ new blood bar had opened down by the waterfront, with mood lighting and white-aproned sommeliers who recommended special vintages that came in bottles and could easily be mistaken for red wine; in fact, Emma wondered if they had ever gotten mixed up with some horrified local restaurant who thought a poltergeist had cursed their cabernet sauvignon. There was, of course, a trick to blending in with the local human restaurants and making sure any unwary souls didn't wander in, as it was harder to disguise a vampire bar to your average layman than it was a werewolf diner. But it seemed like the kind of place you took a date – a date who also drank blood or was on an extremely restricted diet, obviously – and Emma didn't do those. Not anymore. Not when, along with numerous other excellent reasons, they were the reason she had ended up like this.

* * *

Nobody ever talked about being widowed in your twenties. It just wasn't a concept that occurred to anyone, or made any sense. Widows were older, grey-haired, had been married for thirty years with four kids, were rendered that way by cancer or heart attack or stroke or Bob just keeling over on the treadmill one day, leaving behind a respected business and a personal reputation as a pillar of the community, got his obituary printed in the local paper and a sedate service at a funeral home, flowers on the grave on Christmas and birthdays. That was just the mental image that seemed to go with it. If young widowhood was mentioned at all, it was usually in the context of success stories; two people who had both lost spouses at an early age connecting and finding a second chance with each other, united by shared grief. Other than that, it made people uncomfortable. You were supposed to be getting married at this age, not burying the groom (or the bride). It just went against the proper order of things.

Sometimes Emma wondered if she counted as a full-fledged, card-carrying Widow, given the fact that she and Neal had been in the middle of a contentious and damaging divorce when he died. She had met him when she was sixteen and he quite a bit older, and she'd known he wasn't much good even then, but for a scarred, clingy ex-foster kid escaping one bad situation after another, he was more than good enough. They bounced around while Neal failed to hold down one menial job after another, eventually resorting to stealing to make ends meet. Henry came along when Emma was seventeen and Neal was serving yet another misdemeanor sentence in the county lockup, and when he got out and discovered that he had a kid, Emma was able to successfully leverage that fact to convince him to stay together. They had a civil ceremony at the courthouse the day after her eighteenth birthday, one of the multiple occasions on which Neal swore he'd clean up his act and they would have a real future together, and eventually ended up in Boston mostly by dint of the fact that if they kept heading east they would have driven into the Atlantic Ocean. Neal said he had family in the area, though if that was true Emma never found out. His rap sheet had grown lengthy enough by this point that even his usual jobs were getting leery of employing him, which meant Emma became the main breadwinner for the family while he drank six-packs of Sam Adams and expertly managed the Red Sox from the couch. Whenever they fought, as they did increasingly often, he would hangdog it and give her puppy eyes and swear that this time, _this time,_ he'd really change. He just needed one more chance.

It was a mark of how terrified she was to be left on her own again that she kept giving it to him. They both had some half-baked idea that no matter how dysfunctional they were together, it would be worse for Henry if they split up, and their son's welfare was something – sometimes the only thing – they could both agree on. Even if it meant he'd get home from school and know they'd been fighting again, the broken dishes not quite swept up. Henry had never called the police on them, but the neighbors had, and Emma had been told more than once that the staying together for the kid stuff was bullshit and she should cut her losses and go. But she, beholden to the belief that this was all she deserved and she would never find anyone else to put up with her anyway, stayed. If this was a test of stubbornness, and of fear, she'd pass with flying colors.

Until finally, the last fight. After she had at last been unable to excuse him letting her down yet again, and filed the papers for a legal separation, retained a divorce lawyer whose 800 number she had read off a billboard near Fenway Park. Neal storming out of the house, and not coming back, and not coming back, and not coming back. Until, angry as she was at him, she started to be afraid, and then she'd heard sirens, and finally at three AM a uniformed police sergeant knocked on the door and asked if she was Emma Cassidy, wife of the deceased. Car accident. DOA. It had probably been quick, if that was any comfort. The driver of the other car had been injured, but was expected to pull through. He was very sorry, ma'am. Anything he could do, she only had to ask.

Emma used the meager life insurance money to pay off their debts and try to save for Henry's college fund. She had taken back her maiden name, Swan, which had felt like coming home after years wandering in the desert, but she was terrified that she had grievously erred in divorcing Neal even if he hadn't died, and was sure Henry needed a responsible father figure to insulate him from whatever mistakes she had made and would continue to make as a mother. That was probably why she agreed to go out with Patrick Walsh, an affable everyman who had just moved to Boston to open a new branch of his successful Manhattan furniture store, in the first place. He was nice, reasonably cute, and sane – and demonstrably capable of holding an adult job and functioning like a real human, not an overgrown manchild who ran away from responsibility and needed to be coddled at every turn. She'd get it right this time. Learn from her mistakes.

Nobody had ever said that irony wasn't a complete and utter bitch.

They'd had something decent going for eight months. Good, even. Then he proposed marriage, she got cold feet, and despite Henry's encouragements, something just hadn't felt quite right. Then on the night he came over to talk about it, he had, of all the ways to destroy a romance in five minutes, turned into a large, evil monkey and tried to kill her.

Emma still didn't know exactly what had happened. As far as she had been able to reconstruct later, Walsh had been working for Zelena, the so-called "Wicked Witch of the West" – a beautiful, ruthless, and completely amoral vampire who had arrived from the boondocks, Wyoming or someplace, with the aim of dethroning Regina as queen not just of Boston, but the entire Eastern Seaboard. It was rumored that they were half-sisters. Whatever the truth, Zelena had set her sights on Emma as a desirable member of her new coven, and sent Walsh to wine and dine and beguile her, get her into a position where she would be left vulnerable and open to attack, where Zelena could swoop in and turn her into a vampire in the name of saving her life. Why Walsh had become a were-monkey instead of a wolf had never been entirely explained, but it was a hallmark of the fact that Zelena, batshit crazy though she was, was a foe underestimated or ignored at one's clear and present peril.

She had expected Emma to love her, for making her into an immortal huntress, queen of the night. Had clearly also staged it so that Emma would justifiably distrust the werewolves, that she would think Zelena was her savior and she owed everything to her, and hence would join her with no questions asked. It hadn't quite worked out that way. That was another extremely good reason for Emma placing herself under Regina's protection, and making sure she never got too far on the queen's bad side, as Regina had defeated her insane half-sister on numerous occasions and made sure she stayed well away from Boston, though God knew where else Zelena had already terrorized. Zelena had tried to claim Emma as her daughter under the old principle of blood right, as vampires were expected to owe loyalty to the sire or dam who had made them and consider that individual their new parent, but Emma had successfully fought back. It was why she was so sensitive to the idea of someone being fed on, much less turned, against their will. Yet it was also why, as much as she was completely capable of carrying out something like this, Zelena made an unlikely suspect for the Harvard Ripper. Regina would know if she so much as sneezed fifty miles from here, much less tried to make a return.

Hence it was also why Emma had ended up completely alone. When her experience of human men was Neal's drinking and lying and deadweight and disappointment, and her experience of supernatural men was Walsh's deceit and betrayal and attempted murder in a relationship that had never been real in the first place, it rather decisively ruled out dabbling in either dating pool. She couldn't see herself dating someone mortal, someone she'd have to lose in a butterfly's wingbeat of a lifetime, couldn't stand to do that once, let again over and over. Supernaturals still didn't seem like her kind, and she couldn't imagine she'd ever find anyone she'd _want_ to spend literally forever with, let alone who would feel the same for her. Even marriage vows came with an escape hatch: "till death do us part." When death wouldn't necessarily do so, the entire face of relationships had to be reconsidered.

So, then. It was a good thing this was in no way a distraction on her current project. Find the Harvard Ripper, put them out of business, and get on with things. It might be a challenge, but it was nothing she, Regina, and the rest of the Boston vampires couldn't handle. Then if the word got around that they weren't an easy target, any other rogues and loners would think twice about trying any similar stunts. There'd be peace. There'd be quiet.

Life would go on. It always did. It always would.

If that wasn't something that always seemed terribly desirable – well then.

She'd just have to deal with it.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn was cracking the smoke-grey sky in rosy ribbons, giving her an unpleasant itching sensation like small insects scuttling across her skin, by the time Emma wearily trudged up the steps of her building, wondered what the odds were of encountering one of her neighbors in the stairwell if she blitzed up it at immortal speed, and got into the elevator instead, just in case. She lived on the eleventh floor, which was a bit of a trek even for a vampire at the end of a long night, and watched the glowing numbers beep upwards until the car stopped, she stepped off, and jogged to her door at the end of the hall, fumbling for her keys. Technically, she probably didn't need to lock it, as most humans kept an instinctive distance from a bloodsucker's lair – not even by conscious knowledge, but by the same primeval cognitive function that warned them against walking down dark alleys late at night, or jumping into a tiger's pen at the zoo, or any of the normal ways not to place themselves at the mercy of a predator. But habit was habit, and besides if humans were drunk or on drugs or otherwise chemically enhanced, that part of their brain responsible for self-preservation shut down, and they could barge right in here while any number of their higher mental faculties were shrieking vainly at them. Emma was not about to take any chances of some pothead criminal, or perhaps one of the bail-jumpers she chased down, finding out where she lived and breaking in, and so she kept it locked.

Inside, she threw her stuff on the counter, pulled the drapes against the encroaching light, and tried to stay awake long enough to stumble to the bathroom and change into her pajamas. It was almost impossible to fight the physical shutdown of your body when the sun was above the horizon, which was why vampires preferred to be safely in their houses and in general reach of something soft and horizontal by the time it arrived. Otherwise, they could be knocked out for the count in some random public place, proved impossible to wake, carted off to the hospital, and discovered to be medically dead, which was hard to explain to the drop-jawed young resident in polka-dot scrubs who just wanted to take your blood pressure. Emma herself had learned that the hard way, and now made sure she left plenty of time between her last errand for the night and the scheduled sunrise; vampires had a smartphone app (someone with a rather diabolical sense of humor had named it SleepyTime) that customized itself to your geographical location and sent you alerts for astronomical, nautical, and civil twilight so you could make sure to hustle your undead ass out of the way beforehand. If it sensed you were still out and about even after these three warnings, it would then proceed to yell, "GET INSIDE, MOTHERFUCKER!" at the top of its tinny robotic voice-assistant lungs. It tended to have compatibility issues with iPhones. Siri's burning hatred of it could probably be blamed.

Emma struggled out of her clothes and washed her face. The no-reflection thing was a problem when you were trying to do your makeup or ensure you'd gotten it all off; she could make out a faint cloudy image of herself, but no details. She had wondered if the reason vampires had no reflections was to head off the fact that otherwise they'd probably spend the entire time taking selfies; they were so vain that the song was definitely about them, and well, they _were,_ as a rule, very hot. But it was another reminder of your inhumanity, that you couldn't even see yourself anymore; you got used to catching glimpses of yourself in windows or walls or in the "beauty face" setting on your phone, remembered who you were, the image you presented to the outside world. To simply not show up in it anymore left you feeling truncated, invisible, cut off and isolated – a reminder that while you could mingle with humans all you wanted, you would never pass or blend in or truly feel like one again. Some geeks were working on inventing a vampire-compatible mirror, but they hadn't gotten anywhere close to a market version yet.

Emma swiped her face one more time, dabbed on some moisturizer, and headed for bed, plowing in headfirst like a crashing Star Destroyer. Even as she was succumbing to the abject thrall of unconsciousness, something small was niggling at her, some tiniest intuition that things were not precisely as she had left them, had been moved or disturbed in just the barest bit, but that was probably just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. After all, humans stayed away, and vampires would have needed an invitation in, which she had never given to anyone; this place was her sanctum, her refuge, her island. Even a potential Old One would have been bound by the protocol, and while there were tricks to get around it, none of which were exactly legal, Emma would have sensed it if there had been another supernatural here, and there hadn't been. She was being paranoid. Nothing more.

She slept, as usual, like the dead, and woke in the evening with the decision in mind, which she didn't remember consciously making but was there nonetheless, that she had to pay a visit to Henry's student, Lily Page, the one possibly responsible for giving the rogue open access to Harvard. Emma didn't know where she lived, but for someone of her particular skill set, this was nothing more than a minor deterrence, and once she had recourse to a few of her grey-market electronic databases, she was in possession of an address in Charlestown. This was a bit of an anomaly for a Harvard undergraduate, as it wasn't the kind of place that went in for continuing education and adult students focusing on work and family as well as academics, and almost all of them lived on campus. Had this been a recent development, perhaps? Leaving it judiciously after unleashing a monster?

In any event, there was only one way to find out. Emma gulped her usual evening glass of ONeg, finding that it tasted a bit thin and unsatisfactory; she was getting closer to the need for a real feed. Then she grabbed her things and headed out.

It wasn't all that hard to find Lily's apartment. It was on the third floor of an industrial red-brick tenement that had been converted into a coffee shop on the ground floor, with glass garage doors that could be opened in the summer, and a few small businesses on the second, and finally a narrow, moldy-smelling stairway led to the three residential units on the top. Emma checked the names on the mailboxes, then chose the one at the end, tucked awkwardly in the corner. She straightened her coat, trying to look vaguely official, and knocked.

It took several moments for a response, long enough in fact that she thought nobody was home. Then there was a cautious shuffling, the sound of several deadbolts being loosened, and a leery-sounding female voice. "Yes? Who is it?"

Emma cleared her throat. "Is this Miss Page? Lily Page?"

A brief but telling hesitation. "Yes," the young woman said again. "What do you want?"

"My name's Emma. I just need to ask you a few questions. You're not in any kind of trouble, I promise."

"Why? Who do you work for?" The door was open just a crack, but Lily's dark eyes were flat and guarded. "I don't want any more hassle. Go away."

"Any _more_ hassle?" That was definitely a curious choice of wording. "Miss Page, as I said, you're not in trouble. Your friends are worried about you, and they sent me to talk with you."

"I don't have any friends," Lily said. "Who really sent you?"

"One of your teachers at Harvard has noticed you're acting a bit strangely. I'm his – his sister. He thinks I can help."

"You can't," Lily said. "There's nothing to help, because nothing's wrong. I'm fine. You should probably go now, Miss – ?"

Seeing as she was clearly fishing for a name, Emma smiled self-effacingly. "Just Emma is fine. But I just want you to know, if anything does come up, there are resources." She could smell the fear on the other woman, didn't know if it was just the natural physiological reaction of a human to an existential threat – the same they'd have had standing in front of a slavering wolf or a mugger with a gun, telling them to run – but didn't think so. She switched into the lulling, soothing tones, the mesmer, that a vampire used to calm down a panicky mortal, override their basic instinct switches, render them docile and suggestible. "It's all right. You don't have to be afraid. I'm here to help, I promise. How about you invite me in, and we can talk about it?"

Lily blinked, her suddenly glazed eyes losing some of their edge, hand falling from the door chain. "Maybe I should invite you in, and we can talk about it."

"Good, that's good." Emma didn't like using the mesmer much for obvious reasons, as it was a holdover from the days when vampires had to bewitch and entrance their unwitting prey, and certainly a power ripe for abuse, but she wasn't about to walk out of here with nothing at all. "You want to let me in, don't you?"

"I do." Lily stepped back, unlatched the door, and held it open. "Come in."

Emma, pushing away the faint pricks of guilt, stepped over the threshold and into what looked like your run-of-the-mill college student accommodation, with books, papers, and energy drinks heaped on the kitchen table, clothes from the coin laundry tossed on the floor, and the unmistakable and delightful aroma of ramen noodles wafting up from the bowl perched atop the TV. She couldn't tell if Lily had any roommates, or if she lived alone, but she only detected one smell, which seemed to suggest the latter. "How long have you been a student at Harvard?"

"This is my. . . " Lily hesitated. "My second year. I think I want to major in English."

"Okay." Emma had let some of the mesmer slip, as she wanted genuine answers and not ones she coached Lily into, but retained enough that Lily wouldn't abruptly stop cooperating and kick her out. As with the invitation protocol, if a vampire was ordered point-blank to leave, they couldn't resist. It rarely happened, because most vampires arranged it one way or the other that their visitors wanted them there, but it could get messy if it did. "English, that's a great choice. Have you met anyone recently, anyone maybe new to the school? Talked with them about it?"

Lily's eyes flickered, as if trying to think of a lie or resist the silky-smooth compulsion of the mesmer, the little voice telling her to just give the nice lady what she wanted. In either event, she didn't succeed. "Naomi," she said. "Naomi said she'd help me with it. She's the only person who will."

 _Naomi?_ It could have been nothing, but that made Emma remember her visit to Ruby's last night, where Ruby said there had been some woman whose name she hadn't quite caught – she'd thought it was Nina. It was too much of a stretch to connect two female individuals whose names started (if they did) with the same letter, but it did at least make Emma's antennae prick up. "Who's Naomi?"

"Like I said. She's helping me." Lily's expression turned truculent. "After everything. . . I couldn't get kicked out of Harvard, not when I finally had one godforsaken good thing happening to me, I wasn't going to endanger that, so she helped me. It was the only choice."

"How did she help you?"

"She. . . " Lily trailed off, grimacing, her eyes behaving ever more strangely, the edges of the pupils turning as jagged as broken glass. Her cheeks flushed, veins standing out in her neck, as if there was some other force commanding her, and she shook her head like a dog splashing out of the lake. When she looked up, the fractured pupils had gone jet black, no trace of white or alleviating color or anything except the ink-dark flood, and the voice that emerged from her slender throat was a sepulchral, demonic roar. "GET OUT!"

Badly startled, Emma stumbled backwards, pushed by the invisible giant hand of the command. Her feet jerked up of their own accord, marching her over the lintel and slamming the door in her face; she supposed it was comparable to losing control over yourself when a vampire used the mesmer on you, and hence probably appropriate karmic payback, but that didn't matter. Whatever the hell was going on here, it stank, and made her far more certain than she'd been a minute ago that whoever Naomi/Nina was, there was quite a story to be unearthed. She turned tail and hurried down the creaky stairs, past the clouded-glass doors of the offices, and out past the coffee shop, which catered to students and thus kept student hours, into the night. Dropping in twice in a row, unannounced, on Regina was liable to start some sort of minor diplomatic incident, so she fished in her pocket for her phone and scrolled to a number, then hit Call. Snowflakes swirled out of the bitter black sky like cold tears, but at least they weren't sticking yet. The temperature wasn't a factor, but a blizzard made it as hard for vampires to get around as it did everyone else. Hopefully this one would hold off or fizzle out.

After a few rings, Sidney picked up. "Glass speaking. How may I direct your call?"

"Yeah, hi, it's me. Does Regina have that report she promised me yet? The one about the. . . ." Emma glanced around, in the event that a spy was lurking in the shadows of the residential street, but saw no one. Nonetheless, she lowered her voice. "The Old Ones?"

"Miss Swan, I am sure you understand that the Queen of Boston has far more urgent demands on her time than to hound the witanagemot about an administrative records request. It was put in promptly, you may be assured, and will be filled when seen fit. In the meantime – "

"Damn it, Sidney!" Unfortunately, supernaturals were just as susceptible to red tape and time-wasting bureaucracy as any mortal institution (Emma shuddered to imagine what a vampire DMV would look like; then again, a lot of vampires probably worked there as well). The witanagemot, or the witan for short, took its name from the royal advisory council in Anglo-Saxon England, and coincidentally often still seemed to think it was operating in the Dark Ages as well, as everything had to be hand-filed, written, double-checked, approved, and circulated through its creaky departmental offices before records could be added, removed, or released. They had bureaus in Washington D.C. and in London, which was where the Potentate had his or her official residence. This was the de facto president of the vampire world, usually given as a sinecure to reward a particularly long-lived or accomplished or glamorous individual. The position had virtually no real power, functioning as a rubber stamp for the decisions of the witan, and hence places on that august body were more avidly sought after by politically minded bloodsuckers (once again, a vocation where there appeared little difference from their mortal counterparts). Like any good modern democracy, it had nothing to do with merit and pure government process, but came down to bribes, lobbyists, cronies, and careerism. As the queen of only a mere city, Regina wasn't a big enough fish to warrant a seat on the witan, though Emma knew she coveted one; she'd have to up her control to, say, the eastern United States before they thought about taking notice. This was probably their passive-aggressive way of reminding her that she was still inferior in the pecking order, and they could take their sweet time about fulfilling her request, but Emma didn't have time for internal politics and bullshit procedurals. This was definite shit, and it was only getting deeper.

"Yes?" Sidney said. "You were saying?"

"Actually, you know what? Never mind." Emma hung up before he had time to protest, then shoved the phone back into her pocket, considering her options. None of them were particularly appetizing. Unless she wanted to take the night train to D.C. and march into the witan office – which _was_ a tempting one, actually, if not for that first part. Vampires did have dedicated transit services, as it would otherwise be impossible to travel if you were automatically conked out every time the sun rose, but unfortunately the night train wasn't much of a step up from Greyhound in the sleaze department. The last time she'd ridden it, Emma had a twitchy young vampire all but opening up his proverbial trench coat trying to sell her vials of blood from various addicts. This was an ongoing problem in the supernatural community; human junkies tended to be undiscriminating about what they were willing to do if it gave them money for their next fix, so vampire drug dealers had no problem entering into this kind of commerce with them. Since cocaine or heroin or LSD or E or whatever couldn't measurably affect a vampire long-term, it gave them all the highs of getting, well, high with none of the lows and potentially fatal, life-destroying side effects: drug addiction in some weird Leibnizian best of all possible worlds. Even most regular vampires saw nothing wrong with passing around tokes of a pothead's blood at a party, if the person was a willing adult who had sold it for honest compensation. Some of them had been hard users in life who didn't see any need to quit now that they were dead. But since a vampire tripping on heroin was far, far more of a problem than a human tripping on heroin, the witan continued to try to furiously outlaw it. This worked exactly as well as any War on Drugs ever did, but that had never stopped anyone.

Emma briefly considered that the kind of people who rode the night train might be the same ones that this Naomi/Nina was interested in; in the course of her short conversation with Lily, she had gotten the distinct impression that N was someone who ingratiated herself with mortals and immortals alike of troubled backgrounds. Things they wanted to forget, opportunities they wanted to cling to, afraid of losing what little they had. All the profitable psychological manipulation that could so easily be deployed even if you weren't a very dangerous vampire. If Lily was afraid of losing her place at Harvard, possibly failing out, of course N would have smelled her weakness, and leveraged it to what she needed. But why? What for? This had to be for some kind of purpose, not just arbitrary chaos and terror. And that was a big fat nothing.

After a moment, Emma decided that if she didn't want to wait for the witan to eventually, possibly, someday fulfil Regina's request (after all, immortals didn't exactly have to worry about running out of time) then she would have to pay a visit to either D.C. or London herself and see if she could uncover any way to speed up the process. Which meant, in essence, deciding which pain in the ass she could more easily put up with. The Vice-Potentate lived in D.C, and George King could always be counted on to make things three times as obnoxious as they needed to be; he fit in exactly with all the other bejacketed, besuited briefcase-wielding soulless corporate politicos, and would definitely deplore any breakdown in law and order. He, however, could look like a beacon of sane, fair, and rational government and justice next to the Potentate, two words that were guaranteed to send a cold shiver questing off to find a vampire's spine to scurry down, no matter how powerful they were: Arthur Pendragon.

Arthur himself claimed that he was _the_ King Arthur remembered throughout the ages in mortal legend, and that he held his position atop the vampire world on these merits alone. He was certainly old enough to make this at least remotely possible, but it was not likely to be quite that much. Since vampire ideas of term limits were rather different from human ones, he had been Potentate for the last fifty years or so, and it was generally held that he had been shut up in his nice mansion and left to play with his toys so that his dominant character traits (viz., a) being a dick, and b) several missing marbles short of a set) could not assert themselves to ill effect in supernatural politics. It was a delicate balancing act to keep an old and powerful vampire happy and convinced of his own relevance, as they certainly couldn't just chuck him in a mental hospital somewhere, not even a nice private one. He wasn't _evil,_ per se, but he was obsessive, manipulative, unforgiving, rigidly unbending in his moral code, fixated on appearances, vain, unpredictable, and a born liar possessed of plenty of charm, all of which, unfortunately, tended to add up to dangerous. He was a bit like the crazy uncle that the vampire world didn't know exactly what to do with, but had to keep patting on the back and feeding treats in case said crazy uncle burned their entire house down while they weren't looking. And if Emma went to London, this whole unsettling mess, whether she liked it or not, became Arthur's business. That was far from the way to tamp down the whole thing.

Still, though. Even if she went to D.C. first, they'd still have to send for the records from the London office, and that added extra steps and extra time and further bureaucrats to go through. It was easier to just go straight there and cut out the middle man, and maybe she could actually impress on the cubicle jockeys that this was a pretty fucking serious matter and they should start acting like it. If nothing else, her visit to Lily Page had made that troublingly clear.

Mind made up, Emma still had to work out how she was going to get there. Flying in economy as a vampire was, if possible, worse than as a human, she didn't make nearly enough money to up and spring for a last-minute international first class ticket, and there was of course the entertaining complication that she would be (to use the technical term) knocked the fuck out for any daylight hours. But it wasn't as if she had a multitude of other choices. She couldn't turn into a bat and flap across the ocean, and she'd just have to grit her fangs and put up with a crappy coach class flight like the rest of the world – hey, way to share in some vestige of the human experience, right? If she hurried, she could get to Logan in time for the first red-eye the next morning. Sleep on the plane, wake up when they landed (it would definitely be dark in England at this time of year) and hope that if anyone grew at all concerned about the depth and duration of her slumber, they would just conclude that she was narcoleptic. And since vampires hadn't gotten around to founding their own airline yet, it would have to do.

Emma debated a moment more, then swung around, started to move, and made her way back across the river; her apartment building was in the West End, so it was a quick trip even by her standards. She headed in, packed a bag, and opened her bedside table drawer, rummaging around for her passport – making sure it was the new one with an updated birth date, as she obviously did not look fifty. Vampires had to periodically get new ID documents to match however old they physically appeared; there was a whole branch dedicated to that at the D.C. witan bureau. Explaining it to human government offices would have been far too much trouble.

Emma threw the passport into her bag, zipped it shut, and was just about to hoist it to her shoulder and head out when something on the window sill caught her eye, almost hidden by the curtains. She hadn't seen it before and didn't know how long it had been there, and when she caught sight of it, it made her stop short. She paused, then crossed to the window and picked it up. A lovely, long-stemmed pink rose, crisp and fresh as if it had just been plucked – ordinarily the kind of thing that one would expect had been left by a secret admirer, if not for the fact that leaving it _in their house_ while they were out was an unqualifiedly stalkerish thing to do. And her brief impression the other night that someone had been here, or at least that her stuff had been disturbed. The fact that she still kept her door locked, just in case.

"What the _hell,"_ Emma muttered, turning it in her hand. If it had been meant to unnerve her, it had succeeded, and she crushed it rather more violently than necessary before dropping it into the kitchen garbage. Then she pulled up her jacket hood and stepped out into the hallway, glancing left and right before she twisted the key firmly in the lock, heard it clunk, and wondered if she needed to think about getting it changed. But not even Henry had a spare key to this place. Whoever had gotten in, if they had been in, likely weren't fazed by such things, either.

Shaking her head, she trotted to the elevator, rode it down, stepped out into the city night, and hailed a cab. By the time she made it to Logan, it was late enough that most overnighting travelers had decamped to the airport hotel, and she managed to book a standby seat on the first British Airways departure to Heathrow the next morning. It was closer to sunrise than she would have liked, increasing the chances that she might accidentally drop unconscious on the jetway, but fortunately the forecast was for thick fog, which would delay the effects. And of course, thanks to TSA security restrictions and their terrible fear of liquids over three ounces, she wouldn't be able to bring any ONeg on the plane. She'd just have to drink water (the one beverage other than blood that a vampire could stomach) and go hungry until she got to London.

Emma sat in the terminal with a cheap paperback from Hudson News, whiling away the time, until the place slowly started to come to life again around 4am, which of course was the end of the day for her. She was actively struggling against the urge to black out by the time she, having ensured her seat by suggesting that the guy who had been a jerk to the agent at the check-in counter would be happy to give it up to her and fly out six hours later (hey, nobody had ever said she was above using her powers for a little petty revenge) was on board the plane, and she barely managed to get her seatbelt buckled, thus ensuring the flight attendants wouldn't have to attempt to wake her, in time. She shut the window shade and passed out.

She didn't stir again until they had started the descent into London, which as per her calculations had already been dark for several hours, and was feeling somewhat more revived by the time they landed, whereupon she had to wait with everyone else in the glacial Heathrow customs queue. She had just put down "business" as the reason for the trip on her arrival card, which was true enough, and they let her into the country without any raised eyebrows or undue scrutiny. She got some pounds from an ATM, collected her bag, and set off.

Her first priority was to find some nourishment, so she stopped off at a bodega and bought a can of Red, which was the fancy European version of ONeg. After downing it in close to one gulp, she made it a double, and drank the second one more slowly, waiting for the night bus – which was unfortunately not a supernatural-only thing in London, and she had to terrify a few chavs who looked set to try their luck. The witan bureau was in Westminster with the rest of the political apparatus, so Emma arrived, took a number, and waited for twenty minutes until they called her forward. Whereupon hearing that she wanted access to the Old Ones registry, the pudgy, bespectacled drone from Basildon (plenty of supernatural civil servants were actually human, as boring office work was boring office work no matter how many sharp teeth your employer had) immediately turned suspicious. "Sorry, come again? _That_ registry?"

"Yes," Emma said impatiently. "There aren't that many of them. Now, please. It's urgent."

He continued to squint at her dubiously. "Do you have authorization from your local queen?"

"Yes, because she sent in a request for this same information already. Regina Mills, from Boston, and believe me, this isn't for some middle school family history project." Emma crossed her arms. "Are you going to get it, or do I have to call and wake her up?"

This was an empty threat, as she didn't think Regina needed to know just yet that she had decided to make a clandestine side trip to London, but it was sufficient to exert compliance upon the recalcitrant bureaucrat. He led her through the door and to the reading room at the back, as the witan of course rarely bothered to just fucking digitize their records and print them out on a laserjet like the rest of the twenty-first century. The Old Ones registry was a massive leather-bound old book with gilted clasps and yellowing parchment pages, which looked like a sorcerer's grimoire. Part of this could be due to the fact that the Old Ones had to personally enter and sign their names in it, and if you thought your grandparents were bad with technology, several-hundred-year-old vampires were exponentially worse. Rather than stress out John Smythe from the seventeenth century by expecting him to know how to use a PC, they just kept things simple, quill-and-ink style. Which also possibly explained, now that Emma thought about it, the fact that they couldn't just attach a PDF file and send it along in an email, but still seemed like a major operational handicap.

Emma paged gingerly through the stiff leaves, trying not to look surprised every time she discovered some or other famous historical figure had actually been a vampire, as this would clearly be the rookiest of rookie mistakes. It took her a few minutes to work out how the registry functioned, as well as the fact that the ink the Old Ones had used was apparently their own blood, which gave her an instinctive human moment of revulsion. Still, though, it turned out to be simple enough. The Old Ones who were still alive showed up in bright red, the ones who were dead had faded to grey, and at the back of the book (naturally) there was a list of all the vampires over the age of two hundred and fifty (the benchmark at which you had to make yourself known to the witan) and their current locations. As she ran a finger down the crabbed, intricate columns of script, feeling a headache coming on, Emma noticed that all of them were indeed accounted for – except one. One Killian Bartholomew Jones, date of mortal birth 1702, date of immortal birth 1734, which meant he was – she calculated – three hundred and thirteen years old, two hundred and eighty-one of those spent as a vampire. According to this registry, he was supposed to be living at Russell Square in London, his home for approximately the past century or so. But unlike everyone else, his whereabouts could not be verified or confirmed. He was missing.

Emma stood staring down at the page for a long moment, wondering what the odds were of an Old One being conveniently unaccounted for right when an individual of similar ability was wreaking havoc on Harvard. It was definitely more than suspicious, even though the analytical part of her brain was warning her that the clues didn't necessarily match up. Both Ruby and Lily had clearly been talking to a woman, not a man, and as vampires couldn't shapeshift, that meant that if Naomi/Nina was in cahoots with Jones, there was more than one head to the snake. And if Jones had been living in London for over a hundred years, it would take something drastic for him to up stakes (so to speak) and trot across the Atlantic to Boston. Remembering what Regina had told her about older vampires getting more and more anchored to a place, that it wasn't in their nature to rush off on hot-tempered sorties the way younger vampires were prone to, Emma had to admit that this did not make a whole lot of sense or constitute an obvious answer to the mystery. Still, though. Russell Square wasn't far from here. Time for some investigation.

She double-checked the address, thanked the drone, showed herself out, and headed down to the Westminster Tube station. She took the train to Green Park, changed lines, then went a further five stops to Russell Square. It was one of the old deep-bore stations that had been used as an air raid shelter in the Blitz, and there were signs posted at the stairs warning people how long it took to get to the surface and that they should only be used in an emergency; as a result, all passengers took the lifts. Except of course for Emma, who flashed up them at full tilt and was pushing through the turnstiles far ahead of the rest of the peons. She emerged, turned left, and set off.

It was just a few steps down to the eponymous square, a small green public space with paths and benches and a fountain at the center, and she zipped across to the Victorian rowhouses on the far side; you could have thrown a stone from one of their roofs and hit the British Museum, which sat magisterially on the tree-lined drive beyond. She slowed, checking numbers, until she found the right one, and stood there regarding it. It did look deserted, or at least dark, which was of course unusual since this was a vampire's waking hours, the middle of their day. Killian Jones certainly did not appear to be home.

Emma considered, then went up the steps, jimimied the lock after a few moments of work, and swung the door open, then cautiously tried to cross the threshold. She was immediately shoved back in no uncertain terms, losing her balance and stumbling against the cast-iron fence; no matter if he _was_ gone, the invitation protocol clearly held firm, and she would not be able to saunter in without one. Further invention was called for.

After a moment, Emma turned around, found the first passerby, loaded him up with a full dose of mesmer, and sent him up the stairs and into the house. From there, she had him invite her in, not at all sure it would work since he was not the owner, and already well aware that this was bending the rules to their fullest extent, if not breaking them entirely. She also recalled that Henry had said the rogue had bamboozled his or her victims at Harvard to forget what had happened to them, but she had to do the same, making the man forget that anything had happened or that he had met anyone out of the ordinary at all, continuing on his way with only a mildly bemused look for his trouble. Emma shut the door behind him – because indeed his invitation _had_ worked, though she had a sense it might not hold forever and she would have to be quick – and turned, surveying the dim front hall. It was a handsome, stately residence, bereft of any obvious modern touches; it definitely looked preserved from the eighteenth or nineteenth century, in keeping with the age of its owner. She took a step. If he _was_ going to embark on some strange overseas quest to America after a hundred years of solitude, where would a vampire decide to –

"You know, darling," an amused voice said from the shadows of the stairwell, directly above her head, "that was a very intriguing display. I wasn't aware it was possible to trick a human into doing that for you. But you know, you could always have just asked me."

Shock lacerated through Emma like a cold blade. She stumbled backwards, staring around wildly, and it took even her keen vampire eyesight a moment to resolve on the speaker – which when it did, gave her another shock for a far less welcome reason. The man – no, vampire, definitely vampire, and _old_ vampire, she could sense it at a glance – leaning insouciantly against the staircase landing, watching her with every appearance of not giving a single fuck that another vampire had just broken into his house on false premises, was exactly the reason that crap vampire romances were so popular with impressionable young women. He really, really should have tried to be less of a walking stereotype; it was just too annoying at present. Tall, lean, dashing, with a gloriously disheveled tousle of inky-dark hair that flipped _just so_ over his forehead and unnaturally blue eyes that shone like a cat's in the dimness, a flimsy black silk shirt that was open almost to his navel (did he have some kind of philosophical objection to buttons?) and tight leather trousers tucked into riding boots. Vampires generally wouldn't have been kicked out of bed for eating crackers in it (you know, if they ate crackers) but this one took the cake. She could practically _taste_ him. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, _shit._

After a further moment in which she could do nothing but stare at him, the vampire pushed himself off the wall and in a flash, was standing in front of her at the foot of the stairs, so quick that even Emma hadn't been able to follow his movement. "May I have the honor of an introduction," he went on, smiling to reveal a slightly and charmingly crooked fang, "to such a clever and resourceful young lady who has come to visit me? I so rarely have the pleasure."

"Emma," she said automatically, finding herself holding out her hand, and briefly and panickingly wondering if he was using the mesmer on _her._ She didn't feel any different, and it was definitely a breach of etiquette to do that to another vampire, but considering she had just broken into his house while he was actually very much home, she wasn't really in position to give him lectures on supernatural law. "Swan."

"Emma Swan." He pressed a lingering kiss to her hand, which made her snatch it away; she'd just been expecting him to shake it, for some stupid reason. "A lovely name for a lovely lass. And for what reason, Emma, have you come to grace me with your company tonight?"

"I think there's been a mistake." Emma stepped back, trying to reestablish some distance between them; he was just on the edge of her personal space, not actively intruding but still closer than she cared for, and it was already clear that this one was trouble in any sort of way you cared to define the term. Maybe he was squatting, using this as a lair while Killian Jones was gone, thinking it was a convenient way to avoid detection. "Where's the owner of this place?"

"Do I look like a drone?" He raised one exquisite eyebrow, then bowed with a courtly flourish. "Everything you need is right in front of you, madam."

" _You're_ Killian Jones?"

Again, that slight, impish flicker of the eyebrow. He really needed to do something about that. "Among other colorful monikers I've been known by, yes. And since it's a mood for questions, may I enquire once again, Emma Swan, just what you're doing in my house?"

"I'm from – I'm from the witan bureau," Emma lied. "It's just a routine check. You turned up as missing in the Old Ones registry, we have to pay a visit and establish your whereabouts. You're here so that's – that's fine, but I have to know, have you been to America recently?"

"America?" Jones echoed blankly. "Who the hell wants to go there? Horrible bloody place. No, I haven't been to America recently and I certainly don't plan to be going. And now, since you've already made me ask three times and I _really_ don't appreciate it – " a flash of the crooked fang, no longer adorable but dangerous – _"what are you_ _actually doing here, Miss Swan?"_

Emma took the opportunity to repeat several more profanities to herself, as well as glancing around for anything large and heavy that she could hit him with if the need arose – he wasn't in an openly threatening posture yet, but the air was far from friendly, despite his charm and courtesies. Still, she supposed she did owe him an explanation, and for whatever reason he had been marked down as missing, she had a hunch it wasn't because of a simple clerical error. "I'm from Boston," she said reluctantly. "Massachusetts. There have been several attacks at Harvard University that look like the possible work of an Old One, and I came to London to check the records at the bureau. You were the only one who turned up unaccounted for, so I – "

"Decided to delight me with the privilege of a visit, yes," Killian Jones completed. "However, as I said before, I am not in the least unaccounted for and have not been to America since, oh, the gold rush, so I can't be the one you're looking for. I do want to know, however, why it so happened that the registry would point you in my direction."

"What – you think someone's framing you?" Emma had to admit that she could taste the truth in his words, just as he'd caught her lie, and she was fairly sure he wasn't making it up. "Why would they do that?"

He shrugged. "I have plenty of enemies, love. You don't get this old without them."

Emma noted both by the casual endearment and a slight relaxation of tension in his stance that he no longer appeared to be on the brink of trying to rip her throat out (or else he was trying to put her off her guard). She was aware, however, that this was on the verge of turning from a simple missing-vampire case into the much darker and more complicated question of who would have the ability to falsify witan records and for what reason, and still leading her nowhere on the real question of who was snacking on Harvard. It occurred to her just then that she and Killian Jones might have common cause to band together, if both of their names were getting dragged through the mud by malfeasant or malfeasant(s) unknown, but she also knew it was a bad idea to establish any kind of partnership with this man. Even her best intentions might not be enough to keep things in control, if they went a certain way, and that was exactly what she did not need.

"Well," she said. "I – apologize for busting in on you. I'll just. . . be going."

"And whatever's the hurry, love?" He glanced at her with that deceptively innocent expression, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, underneath the thick dark fringe of his lashes. "I'm not inclined to hold a grudge. What say we have a drink, a chat? Get to know each other better. I'm a lonely man. Wouldn't mind the company."

Emma had to fight down an absurd momentary temptation to accept his offer, especially that of a drink; she had a feeling he didn't mean ONeg or Red or whatever, and since she had already felt the need growing stronger for a real feed, her fangs pressed hard against her closed lips, putting in their vote that they thought this was actually a great idea, thanks. Still, she didn't see any human drones around, and feeding off another vampire on first acquaintance was comparable to having sex on the first date; it wasn't _wrong,_ but it did imply a certain level of, well, jumping into things. And having arrived here under the impression that she was investigating a missing person and a possible criminal suspect, she wasn't about to fling responsibility to the winds and enjoy a debauched evening with the master of the house, no matter how handsome. Yet it had taken her too long to answer, and by that, he must know she'd been conflicted. "Thanks, but no."

"You're sure?" He seemed surprised and taken aback that she would turn him down, and honestly, if he smoldered at everyone with that face, she could see why this wouldn't be a common occurrence in his three centuries-odd of life. See there, she was probably just another conquest in a long line, to be slept with, fed off, and forgotten. "You're staying somewhere else for the day, then?"

"Yeah," Emma said, even though she had no idea where. She'd figure it out. "I'll just. . . be on my way."

"As you wish." Another one of those obnoxious, faux-courtly bows, even more so since he appeared to be performing it without irony. His gaze hadn't left hers, and she felt it deep in the pit of her stomach (and other places). Some part of her told her she was being stupid, she was denying herself pleasure that was clearly being more than freely offered, that if she walked up to him right now and kissed him senseless, he wasn't going to object. That it didn't have to be anything more than a hookup. People had them. Supernaturals had them. There was an entire section of Fangd devoted to it. So what if she'd just be another notch in the belt for an undead lothario? He didn't have to mean anything more to her. They could both use each other for whatever it was they presently wanted. No harm, no foul.

And yet. She couldn't quite bring herself to it. For some reason she wasn't sure, just that it was dangerous, and in a far different way than she'd expected. There was still plenty at stake here. Lives on the line. An investigation in Boston to get back to. And questions far more troubling than she had anticipated. No time for distractions. No sense in running the risk.

"Good night," she said, and left.

* * *

There was, because of course there was, an entire vast scientific literature on the subject of vampire sex. Technically, if you thought about it, it didn't seem like something a dead person should be able to do. (Then again, walking, talking, running around, and the rest of it also didn't seem like something they should be able to do either, but hey, here they were). A legion of vampire endocrinologists and developmental psychologists and biologists had published important and educated-sounding papers on what essentially boiled down to the question of how banging was still possible in the afterlife. There were theories which posited that supernaturals (being, after all, 99.9% _Homo sapiens_ in their DNA) could not turn off the deep-rooted need for sexual intercourse which had governed them for thousands and thousands of years, ever since Grok the caveman gazed lustfully upon Urga the cavewoman and decided to get a-humpin' to produce junior cavepeople and thus secure the future of the species. It was just impossible to override that instinct, or so these hypotheses went. Immortals still slept, they still ate, they still performed the central basic functions of existence, albeit in a different way. It made sense that sex had been included on the short list. For werewolves it made more sense; they could have children the old-fashioned way, and thus it was possible to be born a werewolf, whereas a vampire could only ever be made into one as an adult (it was a terrible crime to turn a child). Therefore, logically, it seemed as if now that it was no longer tied to the biological necessity of reproduction, sex should have gone more or less by the wayside for them.

All of this was very scholarly and very detailed and argued over in academic journals. Smart people said smart things about it, tried to isolate if there was a certain chemical in vampire saliva that activated the same hormones normally associated with babymakin'. But for the rest of the immortal world, it seemed pretty obvious that the answer was far simpler: that natural selection wasn't fucking stupid. If you turned people into beautiful, all-powerful immortals, allowed them to live for hundreds of years and then required them to subsist only on human blood and never see sunlight again, and _then_ didn't even allow them to make the beast with two backs to pass all that unending time, they would murder each other in a fit of carnal frustration before the first generation was out. By these lights, allowing vampires to have sex and indeed, _amazing_ sex was what you might call a perk. Being a vampire wasn't that great most of the time, unless you were the kind of person who already skulked around being emo, keeping nocturnal hours, and were convinced you were misunderstood by the rest of the foolish human world (in short, your average My Chemical Romance fan) and taking sex away basically left nothing to recommend it. Hence, by simple logic, it remained. And if a vampire gentleman _was_ having trouble raising the ol' mainsail, Viagra was always available and worked like a charm. It was doubtful whether Pfizer pharmaceuticals would have appreciated the endorsement.

Not that Emma had been thinking about this, even. Not that much. Just that it was something which had crossed her mind in a glancing way after her visit, and which was still lurking at the back of her head after she had checked into a cheap vampire hostel in Hammersmith, chewing over the question of whether she should just write this entire trip off as a loss and head back to Boston, or if there was a more sinister motive, and possible connection, to whoever was possibly trying to frame Killian Jones. But while she was still cogitating, and getting exactly nowhere, her phone abruptly buzzed against her leg, startling her.

She looked down with a grimace; international calling outside your plan tended to sock you with roaming charges. Then she looked at the screen, grimaced harder, and picked up. "Hello?"

"Emma?" It was Regina, sounding even less pleased than usual. "Where the hell are you?"

"I had a – little side trip to make. I'll be back soon. Why, what's going on?"

"Because," Regina said, "she's dead. They found her in her apartment, and apparently all the witnesses are saying that you were the last person to see and speak to her. Plus, the police are looking for a suspect of 'unusual abilities.' Do you want to explain yourself in thirty seconds before I really start expecting the worst?"

"What? _What?"_ A chunk of ice split off and slid down Emma's throat. "Unusual abilities" was police blotter code for "supernatural." While the human world, as a rule, didn't know about the supernatural one, they also didn't _not_ know; a certain amount of intelligence sharing had to take place, the U.S. President received briefings from the Vice-Potentate, and it was one of those things like Area 51 that the government kept the records sealed on. This meant this was a crime that had taken place in human remit, not vampire. "What happened? Who's dead?"

Regina paused. "Lily Page," she said grimly. "That student of your son's. Interviewing the clientele of the coffee shop and the businesses in the building of her apartment led to, as I said, the same conclusion. You better get back to Boston, Emma Swan. You're wanted for murder."


	3. Chapter 3

"I did not," said Emma, "kill that woman."

"Yes, and I'm sure you didn't have sexual relations with her either, President Clinton." Regina was clearly not in any sort of mood to deal with this. "But as you are currently the prime and _only_ suspect, and as I seem to recall you promising me very recently that this wasn't going to end up as a scandal, explain. Now."

"It can't have been me because I'm not even in Boston!" With that, Emma was forced to divulge that she had gone to London, that her investigation into the witan records had unearthed the bizarre incongruity of Killian Jones being reported missing when he wasn't, and her trying to figure out what to do now, all of which made Regina sigh louder and louder. "So," she finished. "I know it looks bad, like I killed Lily and then fled the country, but they have to see that. . . "

At that, she trailed off. If nobody had seen anyone else coming or going from Lily's apartment after she left (which they wouldn't have, as a vampire could both move at undetectable speed and use the mesmer to make humans forget, both facts which she herself had just nicely proven) they would conclude that she had killed her then, taken a cab to Logan, and purchased a getaway ticket, staying at the airport overnight rather than risking going back home and being arrested. No way around it, it was a sequence of events which would have set off all her "guilty as shit" instincts if she'd heard it in regards to someone else, and as she worked catching crooks for a living, she did know something about that. "Regina," she said again. "You know me. You know I'm not a killer. You have to tell them that."

"Every time anyone ends up in the news for murdering someone, their family always says they don't know how they could have possibly done it, it's not who they are. Do you think they'd listen to me even if I did?" Regina sounded half-exasperated, half-sad. "And you've made the situation worse by meddling around in the witan records in London. It looks like you're trying to alter or conceal evidence, that _you_ were the one framing that other vampire for your crimes. What did you say his name was, again?"

"Killian," Emma said reluctantly. "Killian Jones."

"What?" Regina drew in her breath in a hiss. _"Killian Jones?"_

"Why? Do you know him?"

"Yes," Regina said, even more reluctantly. "He's my brother."

" _What?_ What the hell, is this another Zelena situation?" In that case, thank God she'd dodged that bullet. Even if she felt just a tiny prick of regret. "Regina, why didn't you tell – "

"Not my biological brother," Regina snapped. "My blood brother, which I trust even you know means that we were made by the same vampire sire. Frankly, he's an idiot. He swoops about in his sparkly coat like the Dark Prince of the Night and broods like a champion, but he's useless when it comes to any fangs-out action. I'd doubt it was him who carried out the Harvard attacks even if we'd got the report back that listed him missing. He's never even been to America as far as I know, or if he has, it was before I was a vampire. As long as Gold lived in Great Britain, leaving for too long might take away from quality failure at vengeance time."

"What?" Emma felt like a talking parrot, but this was digging into an entire dimension of family history of which she had hereto been completely unaware. Regina had never mentioned who had made her, or for what purpose, and when the subject was even obliquely approached, Emma got a feeling Regina would rather gnaw off her own arm than talk about it. "Who's Gold?"

Regina's hesitation was palpable. Then she said, "The vampire who turned me – and for that matter, Killian Jones, a century or so before me. The circumstances in which it happened to Jones were. . . violent. Personal. He came out of it sworn to track Gold down and destroy him, and he burned quite an impressive swath of mayhem across the supernatural world in pursuit of this goal. He disappeared a while back, I'd wondered what he was doing these days. Practicing his eyeliner technique and writing depressing songs for harpsichord, I imagine."

"What happened to Gold?"

"He's dead," Regina said, very shortly. "Some time ago."

"And we're sure about this? Or do we believe it just because a book said so? After all, if someone's messing around with it for Jones, there could be other aberrations."

"Yes, thank you, Miss Swan, I am able to grasp the implications. As it is, I am quite sure of this circumstance, and it's none of your business why. Besides, we're getting off track. The longer you stay in London, the worse it's going to look for you. If you want to clear your name, you'd better get back right away and face the music."

"I can't leave _now,_ the sun's about to rise. Even if I booked a flight tonight, it would be another night after that until I could try to straighten out whatever the hell is – "

"Well, that's your problem, isn't it?" Emma could hear rustling in the background on Regina's end of the call, as if she was flipping through a stack of papers. "This is serious, Emma. The killer made sure to leave clear indications that it was a vampire, and even the human policemen are suspicious. They're already asking to talk to your son. If I was Henry, I don't know what exactly would be going through my head right now, but it wouldn't be good. I can promise that."

"Oh God." Emma felt another, larger chunk of ice coalesce in her stomach at the idea that she might have put Henry in danger somehow. Even if she hadn't, Henry was the one who had decided to involve himself and then her in this situation, trusted her to find a way to fix it, not throw gasoline on the blaze. "I'll get the first flight after sundown tonight."

"Do that," Regina said. "I'll see what I can turn up on this end. In the meantime, try your hardest not to get caught up in any more compromising situations, as that _really_ wouldn't look good. I'm a vampire queen, not a defense attorney, and you make a tough row to hoe even for one of those. Good night." With that, not leaving Emma time for a final word edgewise, she hung up.

Emma sat staring at her phone for a moment longer, checked the time, and decided she could make a run downstairs to one of the hostel's public computer terminals and book an airline ticket. Thank God for long English winter nights, as it gave her slightly more room to maneuver than it would in Boston, but naturally their Internet connection was crap, kept timing out, and she was seeing double by the time the purchase page cycled through to a confirmation screen. She ran it out on the printer, stuffed it into her purse, then wobbled upstairs like a woozy drunk at the end of a long night of bar-hopping and just barely made it into her room in time. If vampires absolutely had to be out during the day and/or not immediately shut off at sunrise, there were boosters they could take, similar to shots of epinephrine or adrenaline, but they were total hell on the system. Even the most depraved, drug-fueled bender an aging rock star could possibly devise did not compare to what it was like coming out of one of those things.

It was deep dusk when Emma woke, briefly couldn't remember why she felt so shitty, then groaned as memory hit. She checked the clock, realized she needed to get moving if she wanted to account for London rush hour traffic and get to Heathrow on time, and sprang out of bed like an electrocuted grasshopper, zipping around and tossing things into her bag, double-checking that she had her ticket, and stepping out into the soggy evening. She put out an arm to hail a cab, but it just roared right past her, splashing her with dirty water from the curb, and she gave its departing bumper the finger. Then a friendly voice said, "Need a ride, ma'am?"

Emma glanced warily over her shoulder, having not previously had the impression that there was someone there. It was another vampire, probably a patron of the hostel, who smiled at her in a charming fashion and was clearly under the impression he was doing her a favor. "I have a car."

"I. . . thanks, I'm good." Emma didn't accept rides from strangers even in the usual course of things, vampire or not, and with Regina's warnings in mind about not getting herself into a worse pickle, this was definitely out. "I'll just – "

"Come on." He was behind her, whereas he had been to her left a moment ago, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a second vampire, this one with overly slicked hair and a leather bomber jacket, casually strolling up from the right. "We just want to help."

"No, really. I'll handle it." A prickle on the back of her neck warned her of the approach of a third one. Possibly more. And at that point, she realized beyond all doubt that they certainly weren't here to be good neighbors and help out a fellow immortal from sheer altruism. In fact, as far as she could tell, exactly the opposite. She whirled around and ran.

At once, five or six more broke from cover in an alleyway up ahead and converged on her. These ones weren't vampires, but they were definitely drones, hangers-on to a vampire coven, and mesmered out of their damn minds, almost literally. In this state, they could, if not completely replicate the physical ability of a full vampire, at least come close enough to cause serious problems. They outnumbered her at least ten or twelve to one, and to judge by the sound of racing footsteps from further down the street, more were on their way. Staying exposed here was clearly an invitation to total disaster, and at that moment, Emma decided that if a full coven _plus_ their drones were attacking her in public, it was something that the witan could very well stand to know about. After a split second of paralysis, she broke from her stupor, rocketed up the nearest building in a display of seamless parkour that Spider-Man would have envied, somersaulted to her feet, and jumped from roof to roof until she saw the dark pane of the Thames come into view. Following it east would lead her straight to Westminster.

There were yells and thumps behind her as her attackers followed her up, trying to spread out and box her up before she could get a clear lane to run. One of them loomed directly in her path, and Emma went airborne, locked a leg around his neck, and pulled him into a spin out of the way, throwing a second one over her shoulder with an impact that rattled the windows of the nearby boating club. As he fell, he tripped up one of his onrushing compatriots, which caused enough of a confusion for Emma to gain a few lengths. But they must be communicating with their fellows on the ground, as she could hear skittering and swearing as they vaulted up the walls of the warehouse she was aiming for, and she had to change direction on the fly, jumping three stories down to the sidewalk, staggering as she caught the impact in her knees (she could still feel it hard enough to make her teeth clack) and running faster. They were marking her from the rooftops, catching up quickly from behind, and even moving at vampire speed, it was going to take her at least another ten or fifteen minutes to get to Westminster. That could be recognized as far too long an interlude of time for things to go really pear-shaped, and if they had more reinforcements along the way to call in, that would render them even more unfortunate. She didn't know if they were planning to kill her on sight – she didn't think so – but nor did she have any desire in the least to find out. Assholes.

Wandsworth Bridge was coming up fast. Emma cut hard right, dodged as a red double-decker bus loomed up directly in her field of vision, horn blaring, and somersaulted onto its roof, probably giving the poor driver a heart attack. She crouched low, riding it across, then jumped off among the warehouse tenements on the south bank and bolted up the nearest one, catching a glimpse of her attackers in momentary confusion on the far side of the river. While the temptation to shout a _Mummy_ reference at them was considerable, she nobly refrained; they'd figure it out soon enough. And indeed, she could already see them bounding across the bridge in horribly long, lithe leaps, yelling and pointing up at her, and the most industrious of them was already halfway up the graffiti, less than thirty yards behind. Shit. Even if she did make it to Westminster ahead of these losers, there was no way she would be able to hold them at bay – and minimize further disruption – long enough to get into the witan bureau and calmly file a police report. Which meant, as much as a horrible idea as it was considering she was already wanted for a murder which she hadn't committed, she was going to have to start thinking offensively. There were at least thirty of them after her by now, and self-defense would have to be the plea.

Emma sped up, even though she was already going almost as fast as she could – heard the wind snapping and popping in her ears, cleared the next bridge like an Olympic hurdler, and raced through the obstacle course of Battersea Park, up toward the famous power station on the eastern edge. It was decommissioned now, so she wasn't risking a blackout on half of London, but this was still going to be spectacularly dicey. She reached the foot of the nearest tower, crowned by one of four white smokestacks, and began to shimmy up it, hearing her bones creak and her fingernails split, some old vestige of humanity reminding her that she had no business climbing up here fifty and then a hundred feet in the air, freezing winter wind threatening to tear her off, with a crowd of slavering yahoos on her tail. But she ignored it, jumping down onto the roof, racing to the nearest control boxes, and yanking them open, hard enough to send rivets spraying. She ripped out the dormant electrical wiring in bundles, scattering it across the cement, and waited until her attackers were well in. Then she pulled a lighter out of her pocket (you never knew when you'd need a spark), jammed it on, and threw it into the nearest thicket.

The effect was instant and gratifying. A current sparked, popped, and then exploded, a chain reaction flashing up the maze of twisted wires, and she heard shouts and curses as the fire caught, her pursuers dodging and blundering trying to get away from it as it licked up on all sides. Vampires were not at all fond of it, as it was very much one of the ways in which they could die, and Emma scraped her palms on the cement leaping up onto the far side of the structure, throwing herself down the drop on the far side, and feeling the ground crush into her knees like a sledgehammer at the bottom. Throwing a wild glance back, she could see the eerie glow of flames licking at the dark sky, hear an unearthly howling, and smell the distant wisp of charring immortal flesh. Bile burned in her throat, and for a moment she felt rooted to the ground, horrified at what she had done. Then the spell broke, and she ran.

She was coming up on Vauxhall Bridge. This time she judged her leap atop the roof of a double-decker bus better and hence did not cause any heart attacks, rode it from south to north, and could see the distinctive silhouette of Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey just ahead of her. There were sirens in the distance; somebody must have noticed, obviously, that the old power station was on fire. Whether or not there would be enough left of the corpses to prompt further questions was one that she herself did not have the luxury to ruminate on. She didn't think she'd gotten all of them, and now they were going to be angry.

Emma could feel her limbs starting to tremble with exertion as she sprinted from rooftop to rooftop, the London streets appearing in brightly lit flashes below her feet as she leapt, ordinary people out for a night at the theater or the club or the restaurant, all the things there were to do in the city, having no idea that an immortal was running for her afterlife just a few dozen yards overhead. She could hear shouting coming up fast. No, they definitely weren't all dead, and yes, they were very, very angry. Even if their orders weren't to kill her, they might conveniently forget that in the heat of revenge for their fallen comrades. And she couldn't keep running forever, was already close to reaching the limit of her tether. Then she'd have to make a stand, and while it might exempt her from facing charges in Boston if she was also murdered first, it would be, to say the least, inconvenient for everything else. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

Emma ran across the roof of the ancient Palace of Westminster, mentally apologized to the English Heritage Trust, then jumped down onto the bridge. She had to keep zig-zagging from bank to bank, trying to confuse them, but there were still plenty of pedestrians on the river walk, and she didn't think that the vampires were going to be particularly discriminating about collateral damage at this point. Her arms were shaking as she labored up onto the roof of the nearest building, then made one final leap onto the London Eye, which was closed for the night. She climbed hand over hand up the gondolas, wind whistling through the metal struts, as Southwark fell away vertiginously beneath her. Her clawing fingers slipped on the slick Plexiglas of the gondola at the top of the wheel as she monkeyed to the door, jerked it open, and dove inside, collapsing on the cold steel floor gasping and retching. She swung gently back and forth, four hundred and forty-three feet above the river, wondering how much, if any, time this was going to buy her. Oh God, she was so fucked. So very, very beyond fucked.

After several seconds allowed her to regain a modicum of composure, she pulled herself around on her stomach and peered through the girders at the ground below. There was no one there for a few moments, enough to give her a sick stab of hope that she'd actually outrun them, but then she saw them – about eight or nine, she couldn't tell if that was the remainder and the rest had fried at Battersea, or they had sent out the rest of the survivors to comb the other bank – pulling up. They looked in every direction, jumping onto the pier and swarming the promenade. _Go away. Go away go away go away._ She couldn't tell if they were vampires or drones. If they were human, they wouldn't be able to see her all the way up here, but if not –

At that moment, as if drawn by a magnet, one of them pulled a flashlight from his belt, pointed it up at the higher reaches of the wheel, and his gaze locked directly onto hers. Emma saw his mouth open in a shout, directing his colleagues' attention to his discovery, and felt her sputtering brain, which had already had far too much asked of it in a single evening, grind to a halt. She was trapped up here like a cat in a tree, there was nowhere else to run, and while she might be able to make an entertaining musical chairs of it for a bit by leaping from gondola to gondola, she wouldn't get past them waiting at the bottom. All they had to do was climb up here, roust her out, and that would be the end of it. What a stupid way to die, what a stupid, _stupid_ –

And then, Emma saw a dark blur flash into the middle of them like a striking cobra, so fast that it was impossible to tell at first that it had been something at all, and not just the night wind. But then one was down, and so were two more, and she wriggled on her belly across the gondola floor, pushed the door open a crack, and looked down just in time to see one of them thrown twenty feet into the river, bleeding profusely from the stump where his head used to be. She clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a scream, as one of the assailants was backing away, swearing loudly, and looking in every direction for the threat. He did not get far. The next second, he was being used as a missile to level the remaining three of his compatriots, they stumbled and toppled together like bowling pins struck with the ball, and were thus rendered a groaning pile of assorted tidbits, none of which could be reassembled into anything functional, far less dangerous. Then there was a hiss, a snap, and a pop, and they went silent.

Emma stared down at the heap of bodies that until a few moments ago had been the remaining half of her attackers, fighting an even stronger urge to vomit. Whoever had done for them wasn't likely to be a friend to her, and seeing as they were clearly far more dangerous than whatever gang of rent-a-thugs had been sent after her, she doubted that she was in any more –

"Emma?" The whirling dervish slowed, acquired human proportions, resolved into a dark figure in a long black jacket, those unmistakable blue eyes staring up at her. "You all right, lass?"

 _Motherfucker._ Emma crashed back against the wall of the gondola, discovering that whatever profanities she had used upon last acquaintance with him were now revealed to be entirely inadequate. She sucked air for twenty seconds, not that it did all that much, ran a shaking hand over her face, then clenched it hard into a fist. She pushed open the gondola door and stared down at Killian Jones. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

He shrugged, unperturbed. "I was in the neighborhood, and you appeared to be having a spot of bother. If they were actually your friends and you were in fact making arrangements for a nice tea, I'll apologize, but it didn't look that way to me."

Emma didn't answer, edging out of the gondola and starting to climb cautiously down the frame of the wheel. As she was jumping the last twenty feet to the ground, she missed her footing and plunged, and before she could fear that she too was about to end up as vampire pâté on the pier, he caught her, wrapping strong arms solidly around her waist and setting her upright. "Looks like it's been the hell of a night. Who were those?"

"I don't know." Emma pulled rather too sharply away from his touch, afraid that otherwise she would bury herself in his chest and shake for five minutes, and that clearly was of no benefit to anyone. "I was trying to get a cab to the airport when they ambushed me. In Hammersmith. I think I – I think I killed some of them at Battersea, but the rest – "

"You ran here all the way from Hammersmith?" He looked impressed. "But I'll agree that I'd want to know who exactly is setting a full pack of hunters loose on you, especially when – whoa, bloody hell, lass, easy there. Easy."

"I'm all right," Emma said muzzily, though in fact she had just swayed and nearly collapsed, the world turning a strange sort of blurry and slow around her. "'M fine, just. . . give me a minute."

Killian continued to look at her like a mother hen. "How long has it been since you've fed?"

"I had some – some Red yesterday." Emma wished she sounded more assertive, as he was guiding her solicitously to a bench and making her sit down. "Look, just put me in a cab to Heathrow, I'm probably going to miss my flight and I'm in a world of trouble already – "

"Red?" He made a derogatory noise. "You've done all this and nearly been killed while running on the damn equivalent of celery sticks and water? No wonder you look like that. Christ."

Emma felt a sensation like a bee sting, as a vampire did every time someone said that around them, and he looked guilty; he was old enough that it probably didn't bother him. "Sorry. Old habit. But that's bloody unacceptable. Here."

With that, he lifted his wrist to his mouth, and with a flash of sharp white fangs, bit down. She was about to tell him not to, that she'd just wait and find a drone somewhere, that it wasn't that bad, but then the rich sweet scent of it was in her nostrils, seductive as the finest wine, and she was so hungry, and so weak and shaky, and she couldn't hold back. She clamped on and sank her own fangs, pulling and sucking, gulping several intoxicating swallows. She had rarely fed off other vampires before, as it always ended up feeling too intimate for her comfort, and she noticed the difference immediately. Human blood was good, but this, the blood of a fellow immortal and an Old One to boot, was _delicious,_ and she felt hazy and stupefied and satisfied and surreal, lapping up a final sweet few drops before sense returned. She pulled back, as mortified as if she'd just run naked through a black-tie gala. "Fuck. Oh, fuck. I didn't – I'm sorry, I didn't – "

He held up his other hand, stalling the flood of apologies, as he licked closed the fang punctures on his wrist. Emma felt a thousand times better than she had a few moments ago, the world resolving in crystal-clear quality, sounds amplified, sight sharp as a blade, legs fully up to the task of supporting her once more and indeed, running straight up the Shard if need be. She had never experienced quite such a powerful result of a feed, and spent several moments getting herself under control, as if afraid that she would go off like a hydrogen bomb if she moved too quickly. "I need to get back to Boston."

"Aye, you said you were in trouble." He eyed her consideringly. "Which, frankly, I could have inferred from the crowd of homicidal maniacs on your tail, but somehow I collect you mean something different."

"Yeah. Long story." Emma got to her feet. He did as well, overturning the corpses of her assailants into the Thames; they would dissolve into dust, at least if they had been vampires, but it was a bit too much to try to explain to the Met in the meantime. "Why were you, as you put it, in the neighborhood when they attacked anyway?"

"Because after your visit yesterday and the revelation that someone in the witan has been altering the Old Ones registry, I thought it might be prudent to be better acquainted with such information myself." He smiled, fangs disappearing as the heat of the feed passed. "They, of course, did not know a thing about it, and insisted that the error in my status was an honest mistake. I disagreed. There may have been a scene. It was regrettable."

Emma raised an eyebrow, as she could imagine quite well what sort of scene he meant. She hoped he hadn't gone too far overboard, but she couldn't be sure. Even if he had saved her life, and no matter Regina's disparaging opinion of him as useless when it came to real action, he was quite clearly old, powerful, and dangerous with no compunctions about hunting and killing, even if this lot had probably deserved it. In contrast, that caper at Battersea had been the first time that she deliberately decided that she had to kill, and it was still rattling her. An hour ago she had been trying to get a taxi to the airport, to head home and face whatever shitstorm was brewing in Boston, and now she had emphatically failed at keeping herself out of the exact kind of sticky situation Regina had warned her against, while winding up in company with the one immortal she'd been fearing (or hoping) she would see again. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

"Look," she said. "Thanks, but I really need to get going. Regina's already going to have a fit when she hears about this, and that will probably mean I – "

Killian gave her a sharp look. "Regina? Regina _Mills?"_

"Yes. Your sister?" At that, she had the satisfaction of causing him to look flabbergasted. "She's the queen of Boston, and she's going to bite my head off, probably literally, when I get back."

Killian was clearly opening his mouth to ask how she had known that, decided it was no use, and changed his mind. After a moment he said, "I'm coming with you."

Seeing her about to object, he went on swiftly. "It's clear that whoever's causing this mischief has it out for both of us, lass, and seeing as I just saved your arse, I may be called on to do it again, especially if you're otherwise occupied. And I may wish to see Her Majesty writhe a bit when I turn up." His smile turned slightly feral, and Emma was left with the distinct impression that while they might both hate their shared sire, this mysterious and supposedly dead Gold, Killian and Regina had not forged any warmer relationship because of it. She wondered if reappearing with Killian in tow might be the only thing that Regina would appreciate less than the fact that she had gotten herself fingered for murder in the first place, and almost thought it was worth it on those grounds alone. And it couldn't be denied that if things went south, which it seemed they were well in the process of doing, it could be useful having a fanged terror in her corner. Assuming that was where Killian Jones planned to stay, and that he wasn't just setting up some other duplicity on the sly. Just because he'd helped her once, whether because he found her attractive or was intrigued by the challenge of a woman turning him down or whatever, didn't mean he was planning to do so again. His interest in this was for saving his hide, not hers.

Still, though. Still.

"Fine," Emma said, deciding that arguing him out of it, while theoretically possible, would take far more time than she had to spare, and was only in service of a point that she'd have to make later anyway, about what the rules were and how she expected him to follow them. "Let's get moving."

* * *

The first half of the night had made her, for obvious reasons, leery about trying to get another cab. Nor did she want to post on Fangd, even though there was a section for stranded immortals in need of a ride or a couch or whatever; her attackers (or whoever had sent them out) could well be monitoring it, waiting for her to log on and divulge her location. So Killian, having changed his sweeping high-collared jacket for something _slightly_ less melodramatic, pulled out his phone (she was somewhat surprised that he knew how to use one, though indeed he squinted and poked at it as if he wasn't entirely sure) and made a call. They stood in apprehensive silence, except for the sirens still wailing across the river, until headlights strafed the street corner, whipped around at top speed, and a low-rider muscle car, bouncing on its shocks due to the volume of the thumping-bass rock music blasting out of it, screeched to a halt in front of them. The window rolled down, and someone – a werewolf, Emma could tell by the scent, though indeed she had already guessed – stuck his head out. "Oy, someone call for a lift?"

Killian rolled his eyes ever so slightly, reached for the passenger door, which would have been the driver's side in America, and held it open for Emma. "We certainly didn't call for the pleasure of your obnoxious music, no."

The werewolf grinned crookedly. "Some other blokes would thank me for doing 'em a favor, wouldn't they?"

"Just drive," Killian ordered, sliding into the backseat, pulling the door shut, and yanking the seatbelt over his head, just in time to be driven flat into the new car scent-sprayed leather as their mysterious chauffeur accelerated. Glancing over at him, Emma could tell that he was young, the equivalent of mid-twenties for a human; she wasn't quite sure what it worked out to for a wolf. A short brown buzz cut, big dark eyes, prominent ears, and a crooked who-me grin that she rather liked, despite herself. She was somewhat surprised that Killian had any friends at all, let alone from the other side of the supernatural tracks, but then reminded herself that since she and Ruby were close, even an Old One, who had lived through the wars when Teeth and Tails very much were _not_ at peace, could possibly have decided to bury the hatchet. How was another question.

"And as usual, you're a pain in the arse." The werewolf slammed on the brakes as they fetched up at the back end of one of London's ubiquitous roundabout queues, then floored it again. Emma felt her face practically rippling as whatever the speed limit in the city was, they broke it. Looking over at her, he added, "My name's Will, by the way. Will Scarlet. You are?"

"Emma." She clamped hold of the seat with both hands, wondering if his driving wasn't actually more dangerous than being chased down the Thames waterfront by a pack of murderous vampires. "How do you two know each other?"

There was a brief silence, a glance exchanged, and some coughing, in which Emma grew instantaneously certain that however their first meeting _had_ obtained, it involved bad decisions, an industrial amount of alcohol (or in Killian's case, blood that was more Jim Beam and/or Jack Daniels than plasma) and vast, vast regret the next morning. This both entertained her inordinately and caused a brief, unwelcome prickle of jealousy to rear its head, which was not germane to this or any situation in the least and had to be ignored. She concentrated instead on bracing for a potential crash at any moment as Will revved onto the M4, screaming up behind slower-moving cars and overtaking them so ostentatiously that Emma thought either they were going to be pulled over or caught up in an episode of British road rage, which would just put the cherry on the crap sundae of the evening's events. But as it was at least currently getting them to Heathrow with no ambushes, she decided not to complain. She could already see that there was no way she was going to be able to catch her originally scheduled flight, which departed thirty-six minutes from now, and would have to deal with the hassle of rebooking, getting Killian a seat, finding some way for this to be maneuvered around the fact that she at least would be knocked unconscious with the sunrise, the fact that she had burned approximately twelve people to death a few hours earlier, and was only in worse trouble when she got back to Boston. Completely to her horror, she felt salt stinging her eyes, blurring her vision.

"Hey." Killian reached forward from the back seat, sensing her distress, but she pulled her hand quickly away from where he had been about to take it. "It's all right. We'll work it out, eh?"

Emma didn't think so, but she was oddly comforted that someone did, and sniffed hard, trying to make it less obvious. She said nothing until they finally veered off at the exit for Heathrow, Will did a donut into the dropoff zone, and they clambered out. They thanked him, Emma still unsure if she had left her stomach back in Westminster, and he burned the midnight oil out of sight down the ramp, leaving the distinct smell of seared rubber in his wake. They stood side by side, still somewhat stunned, until Emma remarked, "You slept with him, didn't you."

"What? Did not."

"Okay, sure." Emma had to admit, she enjoyed watching Tall, Dark, and Broody squirm like a schoolboy. "We'll go with that for now. It's all right, we're all modern vampires, we have werewolf friends and lovers. I'm not here to judge."

"Indeed." He did that ridiculous eyebrow thing at her again. "But why this sudden interest into my preferences, love? The trivial matter of Will Scarlet aside, I am an open-minded gentleman. Shall we say, flexible. I'm quite sure I can do it in a way you'd very much enjoy."

Emma felt her cheeks go warm, which wasn't easy to do when your body usually didn't generate it. Then again, she _had_ rather opened herself up for the conversation to go in this direction, and turned away too quickly, leading them into the harsh fluorescent lighting of the terminal. Now came the delightful problem of sorting out their flight arrangements. Her plane was probably pulling out of the gate exactly now, they could get on another one tonight but then have to spend seven or eight hours on a layover in Istanbul or Paris or Reykjavik or wherever, and since the time change was working in reverse, if they got on an early flight tomorrow morning it would still be daylight when they arrived in Boston. Killian might be old enough to withstand it, but she would definitely be out, and even if they were working together as circumstances dictated, she wasn't sure she was going to trust him to haul her ass around. He could probably make sure they avoided notice, whether by moving at vampire speed or just mesmering everyone nearby into thinking that it wasn't odd at all that he was casually carrying an unconscious woman through a major American airport, but Emma would have balked at allowing it even from someone she knew much better and trusted far more (which, to be fair, was almost no one, but still).

She turned to him. "How long can you stay awake during the day?"

"If I have to, love, most of it. I can't be dismantling any more brigades of miscreants, though." He considered her carefully, apparently having thought of the same potential flaw in their travel arrangements as she had. "And if you really want to get back as soon as you can, you're going to need to try something new, darling. Trust."

Emma flinched, unsettled at how easily he had read her. "It's not that I don't appreciate you helping me out back there. I do. But this is a lot to ask."

"Aye, it is." His face was serious; he didn't appear to be belittling the magnitude of what he was requesting her to do, or making light of the distress he intuitively knew it caused her. "I can't say I'd be in any hurry to trust a vampire I just met either, and one who clearly can wreak havoc if he puts his mind to it. But if nothing else, recall that I do have a vested interest in finding out who's trying to set me up for something which, despite all my other manifold misdeeds, I haven't done, and hence it's in my interest to keep you safe. We do make quite a team, love."

Emma supposed she couldn't deny that either, seeing as the two of them had earlier put thirty other vampires permanently out of commission, and there was no braggadocio or bravado in his voice when he talked about his crimes, as if he was proud of them; in fact, he sounded more subdued and tired than anything. She studied his face for a long moment, then turned on her heel. "Let's find out how the timing works out. Then we'll see."

A trip to the British Airways ticket counter later, they discovered that the next flight out was at eleven-thirty the next morning, arriving at a little past two PM, and since Emma's finances were already feeling the pinch of two international plane tickets in a row, she didn't want to put them through the extra burden of changing airlines. She would be unconscious for the whole thing this way, however, unless Heathrow happened to have a duty-free where you could purchase the daylight booster shot, and the memory of what it had felt like the _last_ time she'd done that were almost enough to seal the deal on the spot. She wavered one more time, then made a decision that she hoped she'd live long enough to regret. "Fine. We'll take it."

Once Killian had been booked onto the eleven-thirty as well, they went to spend Emma's second night in the last three uncomfortably trucked up on the cement-hard seats of an airport terminal, feeling as tense as if she was about to be put under anesthesia for a complicated surgery. "You can handle this?" she asked, unnecessarily. "Make sure nobody notices?"

"Yes, Swan," he said patiently. "Whatever daft complications we're likely to encounter, someone asking me what is going on will be the least of them."

Emma supposed she would have to take her reassurance where she could find it, and shifted on her jacket, staring up at the glass ceiling. "I take it you didn't learn anything about who might have been meddling with the Old Ones registry?"

"No, as I said. Likely better for me to get out of London for a bit, anyway."

Emma paused. Then, since there was no one else nearby and no better way to pass the time, she decided a few more questions couldn't hurt, as long as he remained in a more or less compliant mood to answer them. "Have you ever heard of someone named Naomi, or possibly Nina? An old vampire, a woman. I don't know who she is, but she seems to be involved with this mess somehow. And I think she might be responsible for the murder that's now being blamed on me."

Killian propped himself on an elbow, eyeing her narrowly. "No, love, I can't say the name's familiar. Doesn't sound like someone you want to be mucking around with, though."

"It's a little too late for that." Emma fiddled restlessly with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Henry, my son – he teaches at Harvard, he was the one who tipped me off to this in the first place. If he's in danger now. . . there's no way I'm stopping until I find her, and I take her down."

"You have a son?" He regarded her in interest. "Blood son, I imagine?"

"No, he's mine the. . . the old-fashioned way." She swallowed. "He was ten when I was turned."

"That must have been difficult." Again, there was no edge of sarcasm or mockery in his voice, only a soft empathy that made her want to get up and run into the bathroom, hide until she felt steadier, less in danger of cracking. "He's grown up now, then?"

"Yeah. Older than I am, physically. Thirty-two." She laughed humorlessly. "It's strange."

"I was thirty-two when I was turned," Killian commented. "Of course, that was damn near three hundred years ago."

Emma glanced at him, hearing something carefully and purposefully offhand in his voice, as if it could have just been making light conversation, but which made her want to know more. But since one's birth as a vampire also necessarily entailed their death as a human, it was as déclassé as asking a loved one about their funeral arrangements. And from what little Regina had told her, he hadn't wanted to become a vampire either, had been turned against his will by Gold, the same way she had been by Zelena. But that was definitely something sensitive and painful she had no business prying into, especially as she was currently trusting him with her life for the next twenty-four hours and as such didn't want to give him any reason to resent her. "Well," she said, trying to change the subject. "You've never been to Boston before, I imagine?"

"No."

"Here's my address." She scribbled it on a piece of paper, then pulled her apartment key out of her pocket and stuffed it into his hand, trying to disguise the faint tremble in her own. "When we land, take us there. It should only be a few hours after that until dusk, so hopefully I'll be awake soon. Oh, and I invite you in. You can eat if you're hungry, I only have ONeg, though."

From the faint wrinkle of his nose, this was not a particularly appetizing prospect, but he gallantly disguised it. "I'll figure it out, love. Try to relax."

"Not happening," Emma muttered, but did at least do her best to pretend that every muscle in her body wasn't clenched tight as a soccer mom's sphincter at the top of the roller coaster's first drop. Time passed in that strange slow way it had during her overnight sojourn in Logan, until at last she could hear her SleepyTime app buzzing on her phone, and knew that dawn was drawing near. Since the next time she woke up, she would either be safely at home in her apartment in Boston or God alone knew where facing God alone knew what, she groped out in sudden panic, gulping back a scream, and felt Killian's hand catch hers, holding strong and reassuringly, and didn't have the heart to pull away. "Get me home," she whispered. "I'm counting on you."

"Aye, love. I'm right here, I've got you." He squeezed. "It's all right, Swan. Go to sleep."

Emma's eyelashes were fluttering, but she stubbornly held out until she could see the distant cracks of dawn through the glass terminal walls, spreading out in sullen flushes of color along the eastern horizon. The dark well was drawing her down, but she kept her gaze fixed on Killian's face, willing herself to know if this was a terrible mistake, if she could somehow wake up and get away if it was. But the thrall was growing darker, deeper, and at least she knew that since vampires did not dream, there would be no nightmares under there. The shadowy wings were rising, wrapping around her, and she could no longer resist.

She let go, and fell.


	4. Chapter 4

Killian Jones had been well aware that the task confronting him was not going to be an easy one, but he found himself gaining an ever more noted respect for it somewhere halfway across the Atlantic. It wasn't the simple logistics of the thing, as those at least had gone well enough. Emma Swan had already been asleep for several hours by the time boarding for their flight was called, and Killian had acquired possession of an airport wheelchair to transport her onto it, while employing just enough of the mesmer that humans did not notice she was unconscious and were also under the impression that she had a broken leg. He was trying to do it this way, subtle misdirection and small alterations, rather than changing things around whole-cloth, as even he was going to feel like several inventive kinds of shite by the time this was over, and he needed to pace himself, ration out his powers so he did not get caught abruptly without them at a vulnerable moment. As well, he lacked most of his supernatural strength and speed during daylight, and did not want to accidentally put his three-hundred-year-old back out of joint by carrying the lass more than he had to. Wheelchair it was.

On the plane it was less of a bother, as he lifted her into the window seat, shut the shade, and buckled her in, sliding in next to her and hoping whoever was in the aisle wouldn't be too much of a pain in the arse. Killian did not want to have to spend his precious mesmer reserves constantly addling some chatty nitwit who didn't know when to put a bloody sock on it, and while this was not his first airplane flight ever, it was close enough to that end of the scale that it unnerved him. Stupid way to travel, really. Not that he was afraid. Theoretically these things never crashed, except when they did. He read the newspapers, they weren't fooling him.

Killian sat tensely until the occupant of the aisle seat arrived, proved to be an inoffensive businessman, and managed to keep anyone from paying any attention to Emma until the safety demonstration had concluded (he didn't think it personally did him much good, but then, well, he was hardly the intended audience), they had taxied away from the gate, and taken off. Thirty or forty minutes into the air, he figured it was more or less safe to let the mesmer slip, as she would just look like anyone else asleep aboard a long-haul flight, and resolved that for someone who had lived multiple centuries and faced all kinds of dark and dangerous situations, surely seven hours aboard a pressurized steel tube rocketing through the high heavens _probably_ wasn't going to kill him. He even attempted to enjoy the novelty of the experience, until the person sitting in front of him reclined their seat directly into his lap. Killian immediately and viciously mesmered them into deeply regretting not only the fact that they had reclined their seat upon this instance, but that they had reclined it upon any flight they had ever taken in their life, and furthermore deciding that reclining airplane seats were most probably the fullest argument for the existence of an Ultimate Evil at work in the universe, and that when they got home they were going to write an op-ed on the Huffington Post stating this hypothesis and they should be banned from the very memory of aircraft. It was possible he had overdone it, he reflected, sinking into his own seat with a grimace (his back was seizing up and he'd not have minded a little extra room) but he now could not recline said seat without immediately revealing himself as the vilest and most dishonorable of hypocrites. And Killian Jones was, if nothing else, a man of _some_ honor.

Instead he attempted to clandestinely wriggle into an inch of space more here or there, while keeping one eagle eye on the businessman's incursions onto their shared armrest, and the other on Emma. Of course, there wasn't much he could do for her at this point, aside from ensuring she didn't drool, but then, she was not the sort of woman to drool even while plunged deep into immortal slumber. He found himself quite captivated by the curl of her blonde tresses on her shoulder, the way it contrasted with the slender line of her neck, the way those long lashes lay gently on the near-translucent skin of her cheek, a ghost of a freckle or two still visible like a fossil unearthed from the sand, a relic of her old humanity. At times he found his fingers twitching, wanting nothing so much as to touch, to mold themselves around those strong bones and graceful arches, the nape of her neck, the curve of her skull. But as indecorously fondling a sleeping lady, especially a lady who had no ability to wake up and stop him, was the height of bad form and lecherous behavior, Killian kept his hands to himself. He would just have to content himself by looking. Painting portraits in his head. She was a tough lass, he'd seen that from the very beginning, admired her spark and pluck, was deeply impressed with how she'd outrun and outwitted whatever maniacs had been sent after her yesterday. Yet she looked fragile this way, young, and while he wasn't quite sure how long she had been a vampire, it wasn't very. Nothing but the beat of a butterfly's wing, compared to him.

He settled back in his ludicrously uncomfortable seat with a sigh, wondering how much further it was to Boston, as he could feel his power slipping a bit faster than he'd anticipated. Older vampires could build up a natural immunity to sunlight, but the best way was to manage it in stages of controlled and gradually lengthening exposure, and he'd spent so long in the dark that he felt like a grub burrowing out of the ground only to be blinded by the brightness above. There had been a time, once, when he dreamed of nothing so much as working hard enough to essentially live like a normal human again, sporadic and unavoidable fits of blood-drinking aside. He'd wake by day, sleep by night, do his best to compensate for the lack of reflection and the need to avoid churches, most museums, all Italian restaurants (though he wasn't sure if massive amounts of garlic breath repelled vampires specifically, or just every human with working olfactory systems) fine jewelers, and so forth. And the fact that he couldn't go in somewhere without being asked, but they were all trivialities. He'd overcome them, it wasn't that different from living with a disability that altered some facets of your daily life but wasn't enough to stop you from having one. So he had thought. A long, very long time ago.

They flew west. Killian grew briefly convinced they were all about to die when the plane started jouncing, only for nobody else to so much as turn a hair; evidently these episodes of "turbulence" were not uncommon in their experience. He released his white-knuckled hold on the seat, tried to think of witty bon mots to fire at Regina that would annoy her to the precisely calculated degree of being internally furious at him but not openly provoked to physical assault, and found that even plans to torment his sister had lost their luster. They had first met when she, a new-made vampire, had traveled to London in search of her sire and any other of his blood children, having some ridiculously sentimental idea that they would all be a happy immortal family – only to find that Gold was a ruthless, manipulative bastard, Killian was actively engaged in attempting to murder him and paying little heed to anyone, human or supernatural, who got in the way, and she, in short, had just been upgraded to _Family Feud_ with fangs. Then a few years later, the business with her half-sister Zelena, which only worsened the problem. Regina and Killian were only ever uneasy allies, balanced on either side of their competing ambitions and plots and selfishness, as she discarded her candy-colored illusions and turned into as cutthroat a bloodsucker as the rest of them. Then after Gold's death, she had gone back to America for good and apparently done quite well for herself in Boston, while he went to earth in Russell Square and blacked out several years at a time. They hadn't seen each other since.

He supposed that perhaps he should consider minding his manners. After all, he _was_ putting himself in her jurisdiction, they were trying to solve a murder, he didn't need Regina to decide to bar him from Boston (that would be a problem, especially if he was ever interested in coming back in the future – not that he had any specific reason in mind) and perhaps she would have changed. Knowing how little _he_ had, his hopes weren't high, but then, he had long since grown used to the fact that the world, no matter how ugly, was still a far better place than he was a person. Used his vampire powers and all their gifts for nothing more than pettiness, murder, extortion, manipulation, cheating, and cruelty. No wonder whoever had meddled with the Old Ones registry had selected him as a convenient culprit. He'd have framed him too.

Killian drifted into a troubled, sporadic doze, periodically tormented by stabs of direct sunlight from the turd-eating marsh weasel across the way who couldn't decide if he wanted his bloody window shade up or down, until at last the captain in presumable command of the vessel (something that steadied his nerves somewhat, with its old nautical echoes) announced that they were starting the descent into Boston. Killian grudgingly reached for the mesmer again, lulling away any suspicions anyone might have about why Emma had not stirred for the entire journey (he knew there were rules about smuggling dead people on planes, and after all, she was, just not in the way they thought). It rasped like sandpaper, and he would have held up far better with a feed, but even he could not bamboozle a full passenger jetliner of people into forgetting what they had seen if he chomped on the businessman's neck. He was even excluded from the possibility of one of those hideous canned distillations of liquid sadness. _No wonder I never bloody travel._ It was the furthest he had been from London for over a hundred years, and he was already finding it unnatural and disagreeable. _Aye, Jones, you've become a crotchety old bastard just fine._

They veered underneath an unwelcoming pane of heavy grey clouds, landed, and rolled to the gate, whereupon it took what felt like the equivalent of Killian's entire lifetime to date for these people, who had presumably traveled by plane before and/or operated them every day, to connect the jetway, collect their hand luggage, and walk in a straight line off it. As he was once more using the complimentary wheelchair, he had to wait until last, and lugged Emma into it, removed her battered rucksack and his own slim leather briefcase from the overhead compartment, and pushed them into the sterile steel environs of Logan International. Then they had to pass customs, which was almost a catastrophe. Stronger-minded humans could resist or even overcome the vampire mesmer, and of bloody course he picked the singular Transportation Security Administration official capable of an original thought and hence looked squiggle-eyed at his massively outdated passport, the fact that Emma was unable to contribute anything to the conversation, and all the other idiosyncrasies that would have gotten them immediately arrested and lodged in some unpleasant U.S. government detention facility if he hadn't been exerting every drop of his flagging supernatural powers on manipulating the ever-living bumblefuck out of their finite human brains. He eventually prevailed against this infernal Bostonian as well, but it drained him, and by the time he was wheeling Emma out to ground transportation, he had decided that if the taxi driver gave him any further grief, he would just murder them, suck them dry, chuck the corpse in the river, and operate the bloody vehicle himself.

Mercifully, such expedients proved unnecessary. By nature of his profession, the taxi driver had gotten used to judiciously not seeing things, and it was only a short drive across the bay bridge to her apartment building, which was located in a neighborhood called the West End. They pulled up, Killian got Emma and their luggage out, and tipped the cabbie generously, though that might have been easier to do since it wasn't his money. Realizing that he had been caught without American specie, obviously a beginner's mistake and a revelation of his incompetent nature, he had been left with no choice but to judiciously borrow a wallet from a fellow traveler – who looked as if he could afford the loss, if his hand-tooled leather loafers were any indication. Killian promised himself he would mail it back to the address on the driver's license, but he knew himself well enough to admit he would most likely forget, unintentionally or otherwise.

Almost there. He slung the bags over his shoulder, hoisted Emma in a bridal carry, and had to sternly quash the small, wistful fantasy that they were coming home together. He could feel the burn in his arms as he climbed the steps of the building, her head lolling against his chest, and awkwardly shoved the door open with his shoulder. He made it to the lift without dropping anything, stepped in, and hit the number eleven button, having studied her address at least fifty times on the plane for lack of much better to do. It started to rise, and he gazed up at the mirrored ceiling out of habit; they, of course, did not appear in it, so that in the reflection, the car looked empty. He couldn't say quite why, but it gave him a faint chill.

The lift door dinged open, he stepped out, and made his way to her flat at the end of the hall, fishing in his pocket for the key and hoping her invitation to him back in Heathrow would work on a delay. Something gritted and clanked when he turned it, and he frowned, wishing he had full command of his supernatural senses at the moment. Even without them, something felt off.

He shifted Emma in his arms, getting her over one shoulder in a fireman's carry so as to have one hand free for action if anything stupendously bad should present itself the instant he opened the door. When he pushed it, it did so, revealing a spare but spacious living room with tall windows that looked over downtown, a modern kitchen that must by nature go unused, a suede couch, a flat-screen television, a carpet, and a coffee table with a few books on it. That was it. Then again, he doubted she spent much time at home that wasn't sleeping.

Killian stepped in, relieved that he was able to, and shut the door, then carried Emma down the hall to what he assumed, as there was no other, was her bedroom. He set her on the covers, straightening up with a groan, and allowed himself a moment of relief that he had executed this difficult and finicky mission to its completion. The sun should be down in another hour or so, she would wake up, and then they could work out what they were planning to do about this whole thing. Wing it, he imagined. They hadn't been much for detailed schemata to date.

He noted how he was already thinking of them as "they," as a unit, even though their aims were still disparate. Close enough to make being allies a sound tactical move, at least. He had to admit, he had glanced around the room for any hint of a man in her life – he hadn't gotten that impression, but then he had met her in circumstances which did not allow either motive or opportunity for intimate personal revelations, and she did have a son, a real one. Presumably, then, there had been a man at some point. Not that it was any of his bloody business.

Killian rubbed a hand across his face, tempted to nip out and find a feed before she woke up. It wouldn't take long, and after the amount of power he had expended to stay awake all day, look after her, get them both across the ocean in coach class, and scramble the brains of everyone they encountered with various degrees of success, it was something he desperately needed. But then, the only way he would be sure to find a drone, used to being fed on, and not have to use more power to draw in a human would be to drop by Regina's place. And that was not going to be a short meeting, or a particularly friendly one, and he didn't want Emma to wake up and wonder where he had gone. She'd said she had some of that vile ONeg stuff. Perhaps he could just choke it down in the name of the cause.

Killian wandered out to the kitchen, opened the fridge, regarded the relevant carton balefully, then finally sighed deeply and poured himself a tippler. He was just trying to work up the ambition to actually consume it when, from the bedroom, he heard the sound of breaking glass.

He whirled around, ONeg instantly forgotten, as all his "bad feeling about this" instincts blazed onto high alert, he hurtled down the corridor at approximately twenty-nine percent of his usual speed, and pushed the door open – only to be broadsided by something he never even saw coming, something dark and twisted moving at full throttle, whisking from corner to corner of the bedroom like a wraith. He caught brief sight of it in a corner, bared his fangs in a snarl, prepared to leap –

And then he felt something in his neck, a burning pain and then an equally intense cold, spreading in intense, concentric ripples from the pinprick of impact, paralyzing his brain and locking his limbs. He fumbled madly at it, encountered something in his neck, and jerked it out, holding it in front of his eyes in an attempt to confirm what he suspected from the sensation. Bloody hell. A silver-tipped dart, the sort of thing which was sufficient to bring down even immortals at full power, like the large slugs used for big-game hunting. To one in the weakened and compromised state that he was, there was no chance of resisting it.

He went to his knees, head whirling as the universe began to lose coherence. But he could see the shadow settling over Emma, scooping her up – he caught another glimpse, it was definitely a vampire, and one with that trademark sallow complexion and wild-eyed stare of one who fed solely on human blood, considered them nothing but dumb prey animals, and followed none of the modern legal conventions – and absconding with her to the window, and it galvanized him to his feet. _"Bloody hell! Give her back, you son of a bitch!"_

Something tripped him smartly around the knees – Emma's bed, still imprinted with the shape of her body where she had lain a moment earlier – and he sprawled headlong, nauseated and fainting, the inimical touch of silver coiling through him like snake venom. His fading eyes could just see the vampire leaping from the sill, out into the city with Emma in its clutches, and even if their kind did not have nightmares, it was still that last, indelible, burning brand of an image which hounded him over the edge and into unconsciousness.

* * *

 Jesus Christ, she felt like shit.

Jesus Christ, she had forgotten she still got a subliminal mental shock when she thought _Jesus Christ,_ even if she didn't say it aloud, but she didn't even care, because really, _Jesus Christ, I feel like shit_ was the only way to properly express the fact of how she felt – which in case it was unclear, was like shit. What the hell. What the hell was going on – she couldn't move, she was tied down, and when she struggled, trying to kick through something that felt like thick, cold molasses, something shifted around her legs, a cold kiss of metal touched her bare skin, and she reeled back, fighting the urge to throw up everywhere. Silver. What the fuck. _Silver._ He hadn't just not taken her home, he had carted her off and chained her up with _silver?_

Emma's eyes flew open, although this didn't do much to improve her comprehension of anything. Finally, she made out that she was bound hand and foot to a chair in the middle of a desolate warehouse straight out of an urban-horror movie, with something that looked horribly like a body lying on the table next to her, covered with a white sheet. She entertained the brief hope that it was a nightmare, even well aware that vampires didn't dream, because it was the only way to make even a modicum of sense. It was cold, and snow was drifting through the cracks in the ruined ceiling. It appeared to be night. Was she in Boston? Was she in London? Neither? What the hell. She had _trusted_ Killian Jones, trusted him against every one of her usual instincts, trusted him with a great deal to lose if she was wrong, and it appeared as if he had cheerfully broken every one of those hopes and then some. She should have known. God damn it, she should have _known._ Probably had, drifting off to sleep in Heathrow, but had let herself get into a situation where there was no other choice. And look. Just what she deserved.

Tears stung the corners of Emma's eyes as she tried to hop the chair closer to the table; despite the fact that that was definitely a corpse, there was also something of a sharp and pointy metal nature that might assist her either in getting free or driving it directly through Jones' black, rotten heart and out the other side. But all she succeeded in doing was causing a racket and leaving gouge marks, and if this didn't draw everyone and their mother down on her, it would –

"Now, darling. Don't do that. Mummy's here. Mummy's here to make it _all_ better."

Emma went stiff, shoulders hunched, hair falling loose into her mouth as she grappled with the sound of the one voice she would have been happy to never hear again, and even that would have been too soon. She didn't know if this made no sense, or the worst sort of all, as she lifted her head, feeling it burn down to her chained ankles. "Zelena."

"Ta!" Her vampire dam, smiling toothily, big blue eyes sparkling with delight, pranced into the middle of the vast, empty space, dressed in her usual stylish mistress-of-supreme-evil killer black skirt suit, tailored waist and stiletto boots, big emerald pendant and broad-brimmed slouch hat. The thing about Zelena Mills was that she combined the pep and perkiness of a PTA helicopter mom with the insanity and sociopathy of a hard-bitten Russian mobster who had served forty years as a prison guard in the gulags. She could kill you with one pinky while never losing her cheery Boy Scout den-mother demeanor, as if she was going to bake you cookies garnished with the eyeballs of her victims and expected you to scarf them down and help her clean up the kitchen. "Aren't you just _so_ happy to see me?"

Rather than answer, Emma just stared back at her, remembering how she had been so certain that Zelena couldn't be behind this, that Regina would know if she was anywhere around. Either she had missed something obvious, or Zelena herself had acquired some serious upgrade in her powers, enough to mislead even a vampire queen and cause her to miss what was right in front of her eyes – and Regina was no amateur or easy picking. Either option was equally horrible, as it didn't matter much at this point, only that she was here. Finally she said, "Seeing as you've kidnapped me and chained me up with silver, I'd say no, not really."

Zelena arched an eyebrow. "Oh, _those_ old things. Emma, darling, you know Mummy loves you _very_ much, and has been planning to come back for you for some time, but I just can't have you mucking it up before you understand everything. After my brother handed you over to me like a good boy, we have a chance to make it all right. So once you see that – "

"K – Killian?" Jesus. She'd even _known_ this, seeing as if Killian was Regina's brother, he must be Zelena's too. "He was – he's working for _you?"_

"Uh-huh!" Zelena nodded brightly, gingery pin curls bobbing up and down. "Oh, it was a bit mean of him to do this to you, wasn't it? So calculated to hit you right in the trust issues. Don't worry, we'll have a chat about his methods later. In the meantime, we've got _so_ much to do."

Emma couldn't answer for a moment, head down, refusing to let Zelena have the satisfaction of seeing how much this hurt, her own rage at herself for doing the exact thing guaranteed to fuck her the deepest and most vigorously, and without any of the fun that fucking was supposed to be. She was grasping something else, anyway, and she looked up at last, face pale as snow and eyes sepulchral black. "Gold," she said. "You three – you, Regina, Killian – you're all his blood children, aren't you?" It was a difficult, protracted, and exhausting process to make a new vampire, you had to be a certain age and strength to do it successfully, and since you and they were then bound to each other for the rest of your immortal lives, most vampires regarded it indeed the same as having children, and hence usually turned only three or four. No telling if Gold had made any more, but he had certainly left his mark with the ones he had. _The unholy trinity._ Jesus Christ. She didn't know why she kept thinking that, bee sting sensation and all. _He_ definitely wasn't helping her out here.

"Oh yes." Zelena preened. "And _I'm_ the best of them, we'll be getting rid of Regina soon, and Killian can stick around as long as he looks pretty and does what he's told. I'll be remembered as Gold's greatest and most powerful child, the inheritor and executor of his legacy." Her face glowed with a twisted fervor, as if modeling herself after her late vampire sire – someone who, from what little Emma had gathered, had been the worst of the worst – was truly what she wanted and aspired to in life, and she would blast her way to the goal at any cost. "So, darling, don't you see what an honor it is to be my daughter? _And_ I'm giving you a sister too."

"What?" Emma's head swiveled toward the table, and at that, she understood in a horrible flash what – or rather, _who –_ was under that sheet. "So it's – it's _you_ who's been terrorizing Harvard?"

"Me? Oh _no._ So bad for the skin. A new friend of mine." Zelena smiled, with extra fang. "You can call her Naomi. Such a go-getter, a career woman, you really can't help but admire her. You'll meet her in time, but not just now. As I've said, this is delicate. I know you want to help your mum, but you're confused by Regina and all _her_ nonsense. So I'm here to sort it out." She turned around, took hold of the sheet like a circus conjuror about to do a trick, and whipped it off, revealing Lily Page's pale, bloodless body, eyes closed, two fang wounds still livid on her neck. "You will be _such_ good buddies! I'm going to dress you up in cute little matching costumes and take pictures – well, you know, can't really do that, vampire thing and all, but it's the thought that counts. You'll have sleepovers and everything. Braid each other's hair, watch chick flicks, all the things that sisters _do_. It'll be _fantabulous._ "

Emma couldn't answer through the all-consuming horror that had seized her by the throat, like a dog with a bird, shaking and shaking and shaking. Finally she croaked, "So you're going to make her into a vampire too, against her will? Just like you did with me?"

Zelena looked at her as if she'd sprouted an extra head. "Darling, I don't know what you're talking about. I saved you from that horrible monkey, remember? And I picked this one _specially_ for you, since she was Henry's student and all. Oh yes, I do know about Henry. And once Lily comes back to life and returns to Harvard, though it _will_ take some time to adjust, she'll be a dangerous and confused and trigger-happy new vampire. I'm sure Henry's very careful when he's in his office, but walking across campus one night, she could spring out at him from behind a shrub. _Chomp!"_ Zelena pantomimed the motion of biting with her hands, then clapped them together, giggling. "Oh wow, that would be super duper _terrible!"_

"Don't you dare threaten Henry." Emma's voice came from somewhere raw and rusty, barely more than a whisper, when she had wanted to scream. "What do you want from me?"

"Oh, I knew you'd see my point. Indeed, Henry is perfectly safe – he _is_ my grandson, it would be even worse than giving him socks for Christmas if I killed him, wouldn't it? – as _long_ as you do what I say. Naomi and I are working on a special plan for the whole supernatural world, and it's one of those things where you really don't want to end up on the wrong side, you know. Plus, you know that _itty-bitty detail_ where you're still the prime suspect in Miss Page's murder? If you don't want me to resurrect her as a vampire, I could dump her body either in your apartment, or in Henry's. They'd probably think he was sleeping with her and killed her when she threatened to spill the beans. Do you think they'd make a Lifetime movie out of it? I _love_ Lifetime movies."

Emma was speechless. "You have no soul," she said at last. "How did you get like this?"

"Of course I don't, darling. That's the thing. We're vampires. We don't have souls." Zelena made a magisterial gesture encompassing their dismal surroundings, the silver chains around Emma's wrists and ankles, Lily's body lying on its slab, and herself, blue eyes sparkling more maniacally than ever. "All these silly old rules, these laws that try to contain us and control us and make us into nothing more than humans with pointy teeth – they're _absurd,_ don't you see? Even you have been constantly restricting yourself and holding yourself back and acting like you have some obligation to act out their boring stupid lives. We're the top of the food chain. The world should be the way _we_ want it. It's just _nature."_

"If that's what a vampire is supposed to be, I want no part of it," Emma said hoarsely. "And I have a feeling plenty of other supernaturals will think the same."

"Oh, who _cares?"_ Zelena pouted. "Literally. Nobody. That's the answer. Nobody cares. Boo-hoo. So are you helping me? Do remember what I said about Henry. Think _extra_ hard."

Emma stared her down, trying not to move too much so the silver chains wouldn't contact her bare skin, mind whirling uselessly. She was supposed to be at home in her apartment, she was supposed to be in bed, she was supposed to be _safe,_ but that was what she got for trusting one of the children of the worst vampire of all time, when he was in cahoots with the other and they were planning to murder the third and take over the world (at least, that was what this plan was sounding like). She had to cooperate now to save Henry, maybe live long enough to warn Regina, and have a chance at murdering Killian herself. Other than that, she had no choice.

"Fine," she growled. "What do you want me to do?"

* * *

 Killian still had a protesting Sidney Glass blowing in his wake like toilet paper stuck to a shoe as he stormed down the hall, burst through the double doors, and startled Regina into a fangs-bared hiss and a leap halfway up the study wall, overturning her evening cup of blood with a splash onto the pile of papers she had been working through. When she saw who it was, her perfectly made-up eyes narrowed to a slit, she waved the butler out, and dropped with a very dangerous thump onto her Jimmy Choo heels. " _You."_

"Aye, lovely to see you too, sis." Much as he wanted to snark back at her, as it was always enjoyable with such an easy target, he had to keep himself in check. "Didn't know I was making a trip, well, I was making a trip. And blah blah blah vampire protocol, here to officially request your permission to enter Boston, blah blah now that's done, bloody tell me who has been attacking Harvard, who could have compromised Miss Swan's apartment, and where they might take someone they meant no good with, or this will definitely be a memorable family reunion."

Regina's eyes went even narrower. "I don't recall granting you permission to enter Boston."

"Ah, I was just assuming you would, it being the wise move of a sufficiently obvious degree as to be apparent even to you. Let us further take for granted that this is the case and get on with it. Somebody – a vampire, and one of the bloodies – abducted Miss Swan from her apartment earlier tonight, not long after our return from London. Seeing as there has recently been a plague of similar events in this city which you have failed to stop, perhaps you can understand my concern."

"Of course. Your _concern."_ Regina drew herself up and stalked forward, so they were almost nose to nose. "After a hundred years sulking and brooding by yourself, you're suddenly overwhelmed with civic spirit and familial solicitude and are ready to dive into action and grab your My First Policeman Hasbro Playset? It may interest you to know that some of us have been working as hard as we can to improve ourselves, and nobody is more worried about these attacks than me. So I'm not going to listen to any lectures on leadership from the bastard love child of Anne Rice and Jack Sparrow. Stay if you want, they just opened a nice new blood bar down by the waterfront. But I can't imagine you'll be any use to anyone otherwise."

 _I deserved that,_ Killian told himself, walking himself back from anything he might say too quickly and regret at leisure. "Apologies," he said, with a composure he did not feel. "I'm sure you've been very busy. But as I said, shortly after Miss Swan appeared as the prime suspect in a young woman's murder, she herself has been abducted. It was a vampire, and they shot me with this." He dropped the silver-tipped dart into her hand. "Careful. It put me out for three hours."

Regina flinched at the feel of it, picking it up gingerly by the barrel and holding it up to the light. "This is illegal. Heavy-duty vampire-hunting stuff, you get it on the black market and you don't use it for Tasering drunks. You're sure it was a _vampire_ who shot you?"

"I think I can damn well recognize a bloody when I see one, love."

She looked as if she was far from sure about this, but refrained from comment, carrying the dart to her desk, dropping it onto a dish, and pulling a book down from her shelf, flipping through it with a frown that drew darker and darker. Fascinating as this research session undoubtedly was, Killian couldn't stop himself from pacing from side to side like a caged lion, until Regina looked up and gave him a withering glare for getting mud on her carpet (of course, it was the _carpet_ that had to be worried about at a time like this). Then she said, "This style of dart hasn't been used or produced since the eighteenth century, and I think that's _your_ area of expertise, brother dearest. Care to chime in?"

He bit his tongue, but had to admit that he had crossed paths with something similar to this, a long time ago. He picked it up, repressing a shudder of his own, and felt around on the base of it until abruptly, something clicked open. A container for delivering a potion or poison or toxin or whatever else you would need to spice up this beauty's bite, if the silver alone wasn't enough to bring down the intended target. Careful not to touch it, he handed it back to her. "Check that."

Regina tipped the dart ever so slightly, until a fat drop of glutinous green liquid splashed out onto the dish. At the sight of it, her face went suddenly and completely very still, and Killian himself had enough experience with someone who favored that particular color to follow her thoughts to their logical conclusion, so that – for once, completely united in their aims – they spoke the name together.

"Zelena."


	5. Chapter 5

Luminous spears of moonlight pierced the canopy of trees, the air thick with the scent of mold and damp, loam and spoor, running water and small skittering things, bracken and marsh and slender stands of birch. Emma could smell it all, able to pick out each detail of the dark woods as if emblazoned in neon, hurtling a fallen tree and bolting up the steep ravine on the other side, leaf rot scudding under her boots. She had a brief and jarring memory of running for her life across the rooftops of London just a few nights ago, but now the roles were reversed. Now she was the hunter, not the hunted, and yet it was somehow, impossibly, even worse.

Close by, she could hear the fledgling gulping and gasping, still fighting the human instinct to breathe, when in fact the sooner she remembered not to, the better her new undead metabolism would burn. Emma half-turned, trying to keep an eye both on their fleeing prey ahead and Lily behind, stumbling on her uncooperative limbs like a bad marionette, making a thin high keen of hunger and fury that had anything halfway sensible hiding for all it was worth. Emma remembered those first few moments of emerging from the change, the overwhelming confusion and terror and ravening, uncontrollable need to feed but instinctive knowledge that no old food would satisfy you, nothing but blood. She had remained trapped, chained to her chair, as Zelena industriously went about the process, wanting to close her eyes and look away but riveted to the scene with a horrified fascination despite herself. It was the first time she had ever seen another vampire made, and it had left her with an impression that, as with childbirth, it might be a necessary function in order for everyone to exist at all, but it was not for the faint of heart and really didn't need to be witnessed in up-close detail more than once. There were two bites, one on either side of the neck, and a slow, careful draining of blood from each. Then Zelena bit her own wrist, sucked in some of her own, and injected the mixed blood back into the wounds, using her fangs as expertly as surgical syringes. At that, Emma had something close to a flashback to her own making – as with your human birth, you never remembered it – could picture Zelena crouching above her unconscious body, doing this same thing to her. She turned her head away, choking, and as such missed the precise moment when whatever unnatural alchemy and transformation had its way. She only heard a gasp, a strangled cry, and saw Lily's eyes fly open, utterly and absolutely black. Saw her struggling to sit up, to run, as Zelena put an arm around her, stroked her hair, and cooed reassuringly. "It's all right now. Mummy's here."

Lily looked around wildly, saw Emma, stared as if all her worst suspicions had been confirmed on the instant, and was clearly about to say something, but Zelena hit her with a strong dose of mesmer, and she slumped back. Dusting herself off and removing a lacy handkerchief to dab away a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth, Zelena pulled out a tube of lipstick, touched up the smudges, and made a kissy face at Emma. _"Much_ better. Well, time for you to help out, Emmykins. You know every fledgling needs to feed, and you need to teach her how to hunt properly. So – if you would?"

Zelena clicked her fingers, and a black blur dropped from the ceiling, which straightened up and revealed itself as a bloodie, exactly the kind of crazy vampire she would be certain to attract. "I have about a dozen more of these, you know," she remarked to Emma. "And they're _all_ hungry. So if you don't remember your little promise to help me, they're going to go snack on your boy. You – " this to her minion – "fetch in supper, please."

The minion whirred out of sight, leaving a hanging, terrible silence looming over the warehouse, until he returned shortly with a bound and gagged girl. He negligently dropped her at Zelena's feet, bowed to his mistress, and vanished overhead into the rafters with a whoosh; looking up, Emma could just catch sight of them, patrolling like a murder of crows (a figure of speech which felt entirely too apt). She wondered if these were the ones Zelena transmogrified into monstrous were-monkeys, if Walsh had been one of these too, and had to fight another strong urge to vomit. The bound girl was wriggling furiously, looking madly for anyone who might be inclined to help her, but it was Zelena who reached down, pulled a wallet out of her pocket, opened it, and removed a Harvard University student ID card. With the air of a beauty pageant host about to announce the swimsuit competition winner, she read off, "Aurora Stefanopolis!"

"You bitch," Emma said. "Is this what's been happening to those girls at Harvard? They're being kidnapped, brought here for you and your monsters to leech off, and then – "

Zelena looked hurt. "You make it sound so crude, darling. We _borrow_ them, we do the usual bit, then we safely mesmer them into forgetting everything, pop them back, and they wake up safe in their beds. But you know, I don't have to be so nice. Do you want me to kill this one instead?" She brightened. "That would be _fun!"_

"No!" Emma grimaced as the bound girl – Aurora – looked at her desperately, clearly under the entirely mistaken impression that she would be able to help her. She struggled to control herself, realizing that this situation was too bad to stop; the only question was how to mitigate the damage for everyone involved. "So you want me to teach Lily how to hunt and f-feed off her?"

"Exactly." Zelena beamed. "We're going to set Aurora loose in the woods, give her an – I don't know, ten minute head start – then send you and Miss Page here after her. You'll bring her back, sedated and fed on, before dawn, or I _don't_ need to remind you what will happen to Henry when he arrives for work. Sounds just _groovy,_ doesn't it?"

Emma chewed her tongue, tempted – silver chains or no silver chains – to launch herself forward and make a good-faith effort at tearing out Zelena's throat, bare hands or fangs alone. Fine. Better her than just Lily alone, or whatever other madman Zelena would send after the girl. She would do it, mesmer everything away (God, how she hoped it worked and Aurora wouldn't remember anything) and then try to ever be able to look Henry in the eye again. After, of course, killing Killian Jones. That was still top of her priority list, and (she hated herself for thinking about this so pragmatically) a proper feed would up her strength to go after him. She was well aware not to underestimate him, as any Old One was a tough customer and she had seen for herself what he had done to her attackers at the London Eye. As ploys went trying to get her to trust him, that had been an admittedly effective one. Probably why he'd done it. _Bastard._

But if she was going to get a chance to do that, she had to survive this first. So she threw her head back and looked Zelena directly in the face, trying to convey an attitude of superior, unfazed nonchalance. "Fine," she said. "Let's get this over with."

And that was the short version of how she had come to be running through the moonlit forest late at night, in pursuit of a terrified Harvard University freshman with a newly born vampire in tow. Adrenaline was capable of making people do amazing things, and Aurora was managing to outdistance them, clawing over rocks and roots and sprinting for all she was worth, her short, gasping sobs easily audible to Emma's vampire hearing. "Help!" she screamed, but of course there was nobody nearby. _"Somebody help me!"_

Emma vaulted over an empty two-lane road, as Aurora was fleeing into the field beyond, and she had a stab of terror at the idea of somehow losing her among the long grass, of exposing Henry to the merciless caprice of Zelena and her gang of monsters. She didn't want to do this, she didn't, she didn't, she so very very didn't, but she had to, and she put on one final burst, threw herself into a mighty leap, and fell out of the sky like a meteor, hitting Aurora amidships and rolling and crashing through a thunder of stalks and seed pods and mud. "Hold still," she gasped, trying to get Aurora to stop struggling long enough to look into her eyes and establish the mesmer. "Hold still, I don't want to hurt you, I'll make this easy, this is just going to be a bad dream when you wake up. Come on. Please."

Aurora, of course, was not inclined to listen to any such pacification from one of the two immortals currently trying to kill her, and kept on fighting, with mindless reflexive panic, until Emma pinned her down by the shoulders, managed to get her under a feeble but sufficient mesmer, and waited until Aurora's legs stopped thrashing. Then she beckoned Lily forward to observe the clinical niceties of finding the jugular vein, of where to bite, draw in a few long swallows, and how to lick the wounds closed. Vampire saliva had disinfectant and antibiotic properties, as otherwise the issue of bloodborne pathogens and other diseases spread by contact would be a serious problem, and there was a numbing agent as well, so supposedly the human felt nothing more than a sharp prick and a pleasurable hazy sensation – which, like sex, felt much better if the person knew what the hell they were doing. Emma had never asked any of Regina's drones for a blow-by-blow. But at least drones were willing; they were essentially vampire groupies, humans who hung around with supernaturals, allowed the vampires to feed on them, handled daylight affairs and mundane errands and other things vampires couldn't do themselves, and in return, were protected and treated well. Supposedly being fed on regularly by an immortal extended your own lifespan, so there was a health benefit to it. This – hunting a terrified, unwilling, ignorant human like a lion taking down a gazelle in the savannah – had been illegal since the seventeenth century or so. Like most people who claimed to want to reform the entire world and observe the so-called natural order, Zelena just wanted to burn it to cinders.

At last the feed had finished, and Emma rocked back on her heels, hating how good she felt, how strong. She had to admit, the extra adrenaline of the chase, that spike of fear that she wouldn't succeed, and the twisted pride in doing so nonetheless had added a certain flavor to the whole thing, an allure she had never experienced before, and all at once she realized how easy it must be for a vampire to start down the slippery slope. If they did this a few times, all of their convoluted moral justifications about living as a shark in the fish tank of human society would start to crumble, and it would be easy indeed for them to buy into Zelena's ideas about how the world should be the way vampires wanted it. You could add all the glosses and laws and codes of conduct and tricks-of-the-trade Fangd posts and sexy marketing there were, but still at their core, vampires were barely domesticated wild animals. Monsters. You had to face that fact before you could get around to having any kind of an idea about an adult life afterward.

Aurora lay on her back, eyes clear and opaque, hands folded on her chest, like a princess under a sleeping curse. Emma wiped her mouth with her knuckles, then bent down, lifting her up. She would personally ensure that Zelena's minions returned her to her dormitory, not a hair out of place (hah) so help her God, even knowing it was risibly small reparations for what she'd done. Plus, she needed to get a better look at the warehouse where they had held her prisoner, as she planned to make a little return visit in the near future, and under quite different circumstances. "Come on," she said. "It's not long until dawn, we have to hurr – "

A cold chill on the nape of her neck alerted her, an instant too late, that she had made the cardinal mistake of turning her back on a fledgling, and one who (not without some reason) blamed her for what had become of her. Even more, Lily had shrewdly waited until after they had fed, knowing that she needed the strength from that first taste of blood, the one that sealed a newly made vampire to their afterlife and gave them their powers, to have any chance of matching her on equal footing. Now, however, there was no more need for pretense, and this might be the only chance she had. Without a sound, eyes blazing black, Lily pounced.

Emma barely got Aurora out of the way in time, twisting awkwardly out of the way, dropping her back in the hollow where she had lain, and then rising up to meet the other vampire head on. Lily was angry, but she was older and more experienced, and had faced a few of these kinds of clashes before. As well, the same liberating fury, the edge of animalistic pleasure in the hunt, was still sparking sharp and clear in her blood, and she got her fangs into Lily's shoulder and threw her like a rag doll, then leapt after her in one fell swoop. Lily scrambled around, momentarily disoriented but not downed, rising to her knees just as Emma hit her. They rolled around like a pair of alley-cats, hissing and scratching, flipping and twisting. Emma could feel that awareness of incipient sunrise, the need to finish this fast and get to cover, but she knew Lily didn't. It took a few years to develop, and a lot of inconvenient public naps first.

She got her knees around Lily's throat, choking; it couldn't kill her, of course, but it could make it unpleasant even for a dead person. Lily was scrabbling at her, trying to claw out her eyes, and Emma jerked her head back contemptuously, spun them around again, and pummeled her opponent flat into the mud. There, now, she wasn't going to be beaten by a raw fledgling. It would be easy to finish it now, go the rest of the way, protect herself. She had set that fire at Battersea Power Station and twelve others had walked into it, just one wouldn't be hard at –

And at that moment, as she crouched, panting, over the prone, still-squirming body of her foe, she heard the sound of applause from nearby, and looked up to see Zelena flanked by three of her minions, with every air of sitting back to watch the show. How or when they had appeared, if they had been following the hunt at an appropriate distance to make sure Emma didn't try to escape, she didn't know. "Very good, darling," the older vampire called. "You're just like your mummy, you know. That trick of mesmering a human and getting them to invite you in somewhere you're not supposed to be – that's one of my favorites. We're both _naughty_ , aren't we? Go on, kill her. I can always make a new daughter, I've really got the hang of it now!"

Emma looked down at Lily, back at Zelena, at Aurora unconscious in the grass, and experienced a moment of something close to surreality at how the night had gone, and how far she had. In twenty-two years of being a vampire, she had tried as hard to pass for human as she could, learning about the supernatural world only as much as she needed to in order to stay alive, reluctantly accepting that this was her place now but still determined not to forget that she had been dragged into it against her will, by a dangerous and murderous witch. Then tonight, then all this, betrayal and hunting and feeding and fighting, nothing human about it all. Nothing safe.

She hesitated a long moment, wrestling down the bloodlust, the desire to do exactly as Zelena said, then wrenched herself backward and to her feet. "Take Aurora back to Harvard," she said, low and even. "She better not remember a thing, not a thing. And now I've done what I promised I would for you, so Henry's safe. Give me your word."

Zelena shrugged. "Oh, sure, I suppose he is. But this isn't the end of it, poppet. I already told you that you don't want to be on the wrong side of the storm that's coming, and as things _really_ get going, I'll need your help. I have a few parties planned, I'm sure you'll be there!"

Emma didn't answer, brushing the mud and grass off her jeans, straightening up, and turning away. She would be lucky to get back to Boston before dawn, if she didn't want to spend the day knocked out in a hollow log somewhere, and she had plenty of unfinished business that she needed to see about first. She'd have to run. She'd done the right thing, or at least as much the right thing as was possible in the terrible events of the night. And most importantly, she'd kept Henry safe, and that was the only thing that mattered in the end.

The right thing. Or close enough. The right thing.

Maybe if she told herself that often enough, she'd believe it.

Emma lowered her head and started to run.

The light was grey and the eastern horizon was glowing by the time she, footsore and ragged, finally made it back. She didn't dare go back to her apartment, as it was clearly compromised not just by Zelena and whoever (Naomi?) had been in it to leave her the rose, but by Killian Jones as well; she had given him the address and key and invited him in, he might have gone back and made himself fucking comfortable after dropping her off for Zelena, put his feet up and watched late-night TV or whatever else you did after stabbing a fellow immortal in the back and needed to unwind. Another tide of rage swelled up in her chest, but she forced it down, realizing that there was only one good option for a hideout just now. She staggered into Dorchester, up the steps to Mulan and Ruby's apartment, and banged on the door.

A long moment later, a sleepy, pajama-clad Ruby stared back at her in confusion; evidently she had had the night off from work. "Em – Emma? Whas goin' on?"

"I'm really sorry." With a massive effort, Emma kept her voice steady. "I can't explain right now, but I need somewhere to stay for the day. Maybe longer. Also, can you please – please send some wolves by Harvard, to make sure Henry's okay? Long story, but – just do it. I'll owe you. His office is in the English department, in Barker building."

Ruby, to her credit, took this without turning a hair. She and Emma had been friends for long enough, and been through enough together, that she put an arm around her, clucked over her disreputable state, and ushered her into their spare room, which was really more of a closet that she had somehow crammed a twin bed and a few boxes of junk into. Emma toppled onto the worn quilt, feeling the repressed exhaustion and trauma crash over her, as Ruby shut the door and she heard Mulan groggily asking what was going on. Presumably Ruby confessed that she likewise had no idea, but Emma didn't know for sure. She was already diving down toward the irresistible black tide of unconsciousness, and gratefully surrendered to its arms.

* * *

The black Mercedes sedan went up on two wheels, as it had so often during the course of this journey that one might suspect it had been designed to operate on them, as Regina took another corner at approximately twice the speed limit, tires screeching; apparently no matter their breed, immortals all drove like Mad Max. Killian grabbed onto the arm rest and, for once, manfully kept his witticisms to himself. He couldn't fault her haste, even if he knew that hers was borne from a desire to get to grips with Zelena and his was to find Emma Swan before things got any worse. There wasn't much smell left on the dart to track, but Regina said she had some idea of where their insane sister might have squirreled away, based on what she had used for hideouts the _last_ time she had arrived to delight Boston with the dubious honor of her presence. As for how Regina could have failed to see that she was back, that was another question that would just have to wait until a more convenient moment for an answer. Such as never, because ideally Zelena would already have a stake driven straight through her and it would all be moot.

Killian put a hand to the breast pocket of his jacket, making sure the syringe case was still there. He and Regina were both old enough that they could make it at least partway into the day without being knocked out, him quite a bit more so, but since he had already endured the trial of the trip from London and _then_ being poisoned with silver to boot, he wasn't taking any chance. There were two daylight booster shots, one for each of them, which they intended to take if sunrise showed any symptoms of inconveniently interfering with their investigation. Bloody hell, he did hope it didn't come to that. The daylight shots worked by putting a vampire in a state equivalent to mild anaphylactic shock, delivering a constant disruption to their system to avoid it shutting down, and it was exactly as pleasant as you would imagine a sustained allergic reaction to be. It was also why the frequent or cumulative use of them was not advised. Epinephrine didn't work to stop the effects, so if it went bad, it went very bad. Nobody had actually ever been killed by it, as far as Killian knew, but given that he had been largely sequestered from vampire society for close to a hundred years, that was far from comforting.

Regina took the last curve like a freight train, braking with a squeal, and the Mercedes slid nose-first toward a row of Dumpsters, stopping inches short. They were arrayed like a squat army of troll guards in front of a decrepit old warehouse overlooking the harbor, seemingly and oddly out of place for the rest of the town – which, whatever it was, looked fairly peaceful and well-to-do, with that colonial red-brick aesthetic common to this part of the Northeast, nothing to overly differentiate it from any of the prosperous New England coastal hamlets they'd passed through at high speed. They climbed out of the car, and Killian glanced around critically. "Here, love? What makes you think she'd be _here?_ Aye, it's a spooky-looking sort of place, but – "

In answer, Regina cocked her head irritably at a sign swinging in the chilly January night. "Get a good look, Sherlock Holmes."

Killian did – and felt a small jolt of lightning travel down him from head to heel, not that he'd admit it to her. _**Welcome to Historic Salem, Massachusetts.**_

"Salem." Well, he couldn't say she was wrong. This was indeed exactly the sort of place Zelena would elect for a hideout, as she'd always dabbled in the black arts as well as her own supernatural powers, and certainly had not become known as the "Wicked Witch" by accident. She must find it delightfully ironic that while the town's inhabitants cashed in on their sordid local history and sold Witch Trials memorabilia in the gift shop, made sure to explain that it was down to Puritan religious zealotry framing innocent women and hence a duly shameful affair, there was a _real_ and far more dangerous witch moving unnoticed among them, causing far more damage and fear. Even he had to admire the cleverness of it, while simultaneously losing nothing of his ardent desire to hasten her introduction to the business end of a stake.

Killian and Regina went around the back, popped the trunk, and removed their implements for the night's work. She had a crossbow with silver-tipped arrows, jacketed in black velvet so they didn't accidentally affect her, and he had a quiver of a dozen handsome hardwood javelins, about two feet long apiece and balanced for throwing. The old vampire-hunting weapons had mostly become obsolete, as disagreements were settled in witan courts and boring lawsuits instead of the old way (read: duels to the death) but Regina still had a locked cupboard in her cellar full of these and similar implements, and when dealing with Zelena, there was no question of attempting to have a calm and reasoned conversation at the end of which everyone would agree to a compromise and go home happy. They would have to be ready to shoot to kill.

Killian shrugged on the quiver, and Regina hoisted the crossbow. They exchanged a look, then sprang the last thirty feet to the warehouse doors and kicked them open with a rending crash.

Inside, there was an empty chair with silver chains, a table, a sheet, and heaps of old junk, shoved aside to make room and leaving scuff marks in the dust. Regina stopped short, nostrils flaring. "Zelena. She's been here. Maybe just left. Her scent is all over the place, and this. . ." She paced forward, looking down at the table, wiping up a drop of dark blood with a finger and tasting it with the acumen of a professional vintner. "She's been making new vampires."

"Christ." Killian himself was more interested in the chair, as he in turn could smell Emma Swan on it, as distinct a trace as a bright shooting star across a dark night sky. The sight of the silver chains turned his stomach, the realization of what she must be enduring because of his mistake. He circled it once and then again, trying to wring what scanty evidence he could from it. He sniffed again. Fear and anger, neither of which were either unexpected or terribly helpful. God, she probably thought he had been the one to hand-deliver her into this hellhole, serve her up for Zelena on a bloody (and literal) silver platter. And for everything else that reeked about this situation, that oddly stung the worst.

Shaking his head, he turned back to Regina, intending to ask her something – what, he wasn't quite sure. That was because at that moment, half a dozen shrieking bloodies dropped out of the rafters and commenced upon an excellently competent attempt to kill them.

Killian yelled. Regina yelled. They stumbled backwards, Killian whipping out a throwing stake and launching it through the leader's heart, which bought her enough time to unsheathe her arrows and open up with the crossbow, the quarrels thumping and hissing through the dark, dusty air. The bloodies were fast, ruthless, and clearly recently fed, but they were also vampire teenagers, while Regina had been turned in 1870 and Killian was an Old One. After they had taken down three, the surviving half elected to beat a tactical retreat. They swarmed up the walls, jumped out through the gaps in the broken ceiling tiles, and vanished on the wind.

Killian paused a moment, then stormed over to the nearest fallen one, who was still alive if its feeble twitching was any indication. He slammed a boot onto their neck and gave the stake a little twist. "Where's your mistress? Where did she take the woman?"

In response, the bloodie spat feebly at him, hissing and baring its long, curved fangs. Between its long, matted hair, wild eyes, and abominable dentition, it was hard to tell it had once been human, let alone man or woman. Killian supposed that the more the monster side was fed, the more it emerged in the flesh, and Zelena also had that charming trick of periodically turning her minions into flying were-monkeys, another thing that made her moniker so unfortunately fitting. Swallowing his revulsion, he gripped it by the dirty lapels. "Where? _Where?"_

The creature let out a rattling cackle, spat one more mouthful of blood at him, and subsided into the dull glaze of death, stake still jutting from its bony chest. Disgusted, he wiped his hands on his leather trousers, then stepped around and jerked the stake out, cleaning it on the sheet and tossing it back on the table. "Well, that's just bloody brilliant. And you, Your Majesty, I suppose you're not quite completely useless in a fight. Any more ideas?"

"Thanks," Regina said acidly. "Likewise. And in fact, yes. This way."

They crossed the floor, stepping gingerly over the corpses, and emerged through the side door, onto the road beyond. She seemed to know where she was going, and he jogged to keep up, as they moved at preternatural speed away from the waterfront and up the hill toward the dark trees beyond. A second sign at the edge read **_Salem Woods_** , and Killian, despite his own personal inexperience with America, knew it had also been called the Witches' Wood; a fitting place for Zelena to concoct whatever terrible designs she had in mind. He could see the eastern sky starting to grey; if they wanted to finish this without using the daylight shots, their time was short. He could see that something large and fast-moving had passed through here, and whiffed the telltale musk of blood and human sweat and the ripe pheromones of terror. There'd been a hunt. _Hunting who?_ Not Emma, not again. If the bloody witch had laid a finger on her –

Regina had apparently picked up the same scent, and while vampires' sense of smell was not as keen as werewolves, it was more than enough for them to track by, moving quickly through the tangled undergrowth and occasional squashy patches of bog, through the thick, low-growing trees and across to a field on the far side. Here, she came to a halt so sudden he almost crashed into her, and cursed. "We've just missed them. This can't be more than an hour old."

Killian prowled in a restless circle, knowing she was likely right but still unwilling to relinquish the idea that he could be doing more, that giving up now was an unforgivable laxity. He could make out what Regina could, the place where the hunt had come to an end, the prey overwhelmed and fed on by one – no, two – vampires, and then the distinctive scentmark of their bloodline, meaning Zelena. He tried to make out whether Emma's was included, but it was all so mixed up and jumbled that he couldn't be sure. There was definite pink in the east by now, making his old bones ache, and the idea of jamming that bloody horseshoe nail into some inconvenient part of his anatomy (because when it came to that stuff, anywhere was inconvenient) made him quail. He straightened up roughly. "She isn't here."

"Well, she was." Regina glanced around, as if expecting Zelena to pop out from the long grass like the world's worst sitcom gag. "But you're right, not now. Let's get moving."

"If I heard correctly, you just said I was right," Killian remarked, as they started back toward the car. "I want that notarized."

"Shut up." Regina slung her crossbow back over her shoulder, since its use did not appear to be called for at the moment, and dug out her keys instead. They arrived at the Mercedes momentarily, concealed their weapons in the boot again, and got in. Even if they returned at her previous landspeed records, they could not get back to Boston before the sun rose, and nor could they leave the investigation hanging at this vulnerable juncture. So, with utmost loathing, Killian removed the syringe case from his jacket, they took one apiece, and doubtless looking very much like junkies who had chosen this scenic harbor overlook to get high, they shot up.

The world briefly took on a nauseating, revolving Technicolor aspect, he heard a faint ringing in his ears, and swallowed hard several times, trying to get his eyes to focus. Beside him, Regina looked equally discomfited, which he took some small and ultimately rather pointless petty joy from, and gulped and grimaced until she regained her composure. "I think I'll give my sister six of these before I kill her," she remarked, starting the car and reversing in a spray of gravel. "In a row. It only seems fair."

Killian grunted, feeling that anything beyond monosyllabic conversation would strain his capacities unduly, as they drove south. Regina, on the driver's side of the car, was getting the brunt of the sun as it came up, and he felt momentarily sorry for her; a vampire's accumulated immunity didn't really kick in until they were past two hundred, and she was still a quarter century or so shy of the mark. They were just early enough to miss the worst of the commuter crunch to downtown Boston, but they still hit slow going around Revere, and Regina's temper was dangling by a thread by the time they pulled into the alley behind her house (one occupied the vampire queen's personal parking spot on pain of not at all figurative death). "I'm going to have a feed and then try to see if I can pin down where else Zelena might have been recently. You're welcome to not make yourself a screaming liability, if that's even within your power."

"Noted," Killian said, just as shortly. "As it was, I did have an idea. Miss Swan mentioned something about a son. Henry. And if I know the first thing about the way our dearest sister operates, he might be the next target. Can you tell me anything about him?"

"He teaches English at Harvard." Regina got out of the car and slammed the door somewhat harder than necessary, making the entire Mercedes rock on its chassis. "You're welcome to run off and babysit him if you like, seeing as you apparently don't realize that the entire supernatural community is looking for the Old One behind the campus attacks and you might as well drive a clown car up Massachusetts Avenue with a bulls-eye painted on your back. You've already been framed once. If you make it twice, I'm not doing a thing to help you."

"And here I didn't realize you cared for me."

"I don't. I just don't want to spend any more time cleaning up your messes." Regina strode for the back terrace door, then stopped on the threshold and looked back at him. "Do something smart, Killian. For once."

With that, she shut it behind her, apparently curtailing any further episodes of sibling advice (well, he was her older brother by a hundred and thirty-six years, it should be _his_ prerogative to dole it out, though he had to admit that his was probably even worse). Still, though, as much as he hated to admit that she was right, he couldn't quite countenance the idea of explaining to Emma not just the fact that he had let her get abducted, but then done nothing if her lad was in danger as well. This was already enough of a disadvantage to begin at. He had to start collecting some karma points on the other end of the scale, or his goose was well and truly cooked.

Thus, twenty minutes after Regina had expressly warned him not to, Killian was strolling up Harvard Street, reminding himself that it was broad daylight by now and hence not to attract undue gawking by moving faster than a speeding T metro car. It was a cold, sunny morning, the remnants of a hard frost melting on the bushes and railings, and backpacked students whizzed past him on bicycles, bells bonging in the Divinity School chapels and giving him a momentary pang of homesickness for London. But perhaps it wasn't bad for a chap to get out and see the world a bit, even several centuries past the age at which such voyaging normally occurred, and if he had to be fighting the effects of this godforsaken booster shot, he might as well make the most of it. Trying not to look as if a rabid wolverine was eating his vitals from the inside out, he donned a pleasant smile and went in to enquire of a suspiciously helpful student volunteer (he hadn't even used the mesmer on her, so it must have been his devilish good looks). Upon being informed that the offices for the English faculty were in the Barker Center, he headed out, reversed the last thousand yards or so of his present course, and shortly came upon a handsome gingerbread-house brick building with white trim and columns, craftily nipped up the steps behind a distracted professor who held the door open to be polite (this counted as an invitation, since it was a public building) and stepped into the airy glass veranda, consulting a directory on the wall. _Dr. Henry Nolan_ was on the second floor. As it was the only Henry listed, it had to be him.

Groaning at even this commonplace exertion, Killian took the stairs, rued his long-lost ability to look into a mirror and ensure that he did not in fact look like a sleepless hobo with a fondness for leather who most probably had gone off a large quantity of psychotropic medication, found the relevant door at the end of the corridor, and cautiously tried the lock, then knocked. No answer, and the knob didn't wriggle. Henry must not have gotten to work yet.

Killian lurked as inconspicuously as possible, resisting the nervous urge to go up to someone and asking them if they knew what time Dr. Nolan usually arrived at the office, until at last the front door opened in the foyer below, a trim thirtyish gentleman with glasses and a neatly trimmed brown beard stepped inside, and made for the café. He purchased a small latte and a blueberry muffin, then climbed the stairs, turned the corner – and stopped short, hand flashing to his briefcase for whatever presumable vampire-repelling object he had concealed there. "Keep your distance, bloodsucker."

Deciding that it was probably bad form to reprimand him for using what was considered the equivalent of a mild ethnic slur, Killian was instead surprised that Henry could recognize him as one on sight – then supposed that with a vampire mother and the current circumstances on campus, that was only understandable. Hands up, he moved closer slowly. "Aye, you're not wrong, Dr. Nolan – it _is_ Dr. Nolan, isn't it? But hear me out."

"How do you know my name?" Henry regarded him suspiciously, shifting as if to put down his latte and muffin and clear himself up for any unfortunate entanglements. "You're not one of Regina's usual crew, I've never seen you before."

"I'm her brother. I live in London, have since long before you were born, and it's the mess here that's called me out of retirement. I promise, I mean you no harm. Can we talk?"

"I'm fairly sure I saw a werewolf cruising past me in the parking lot," Henry said. "Is there something going on in your world I should know about? Where's my mother?"

"She. . . that is something I am also very interested in presently establishing. But Regina and I think we may have identified a preliminary culprit for the attacks. May I come in?"

Henry eyed him for a long moment and did not answer immediately, unlocking his office door, stepping in, and taking his time about setting things down and putting them in order – knowing, of course, that Killian couldn't follow him in until he gave the word. But at last he said, "Fine. Five minutes."

Killian stepped into the small, sunlit space, trying to shift a massive stack of paper off the only available chair without it avalanching everywhere – a tall task even with supernatural abilities – and put it on a shelf at Henry's direction. The man didn't much resemble Emma, at least physically; his looks must have come from his father, and Killian was unable to repress a further pang of curiosity about him (and more pertinently, if he was still around and someone generally termed _the competition)._ But there were bits of her in his eyes and chin and his demeanor toward Killian, neither openly friendly nor openly hostile, with a small flicker of curiosity underneath. "So," he said, biting into his muffin. "Explain."

As best as possible, Killian filled him in on the lamentable events of the past few days, Emma's disappearance (he downplayed this as much as possible, trying not to sound as if they were sitting here shooting the breeze while Henry's mother's life was in danger) his and Regina's discovery that one Zelena Mills was back and operable in the area, and that while not entirely certain, they thought she almost undoubtedly had a hand in the campus attacks. There also seemed to be more players in the plot, but of these they did not know.

Henry listened intently, tapping his fingers together, giving no sign of what he might think, or whether or not he believed it. He occasionally jotted things down on a pocket notepad, good academic that he was, and finally said, "This is all very interesting, Mr. Jones. And if your information is sound, we'd surely owe you a debt of gratitude. But you have to understand that I do find it a bit neat that an Old One claiming to be unfairly framed is turning up here, offering to hand me the supposed suspects wrapped up with a bow, when that suspect is obviously a loose cannon which the supernatural world would be happy to be conveniently rid of. You see?"

Killian did have to admit that, being after all employed by this venerable institution, the lad was no dullard (they were the same age, give or take three hundred years, but all humans and their impossibly short lifespans felt like children to him). "Aye, Dr. Nolan, I understand. I know I'll have to prove it to you, so whatever capacity you need me to assist in, I'll – "

At that moment, Henry's phone trilled, once and then again. He looked at it, frowned, then picked up. "Nolan. Can this wait? I'm in a meeting."

A pause, in which Killian observed his face closely and saw Henry's expression shift imperceptibly, just so, like open water under a sheet of ice freezing fast in the grip of the renewed winter. "I see," he said. "Yes, of course. I'll be right there, give me five minutes."

With that, he hung up, stuffed his phone away, and grabbed his jacket, which he had only just taken off. "Well, Mr. Jones," he said grimly, shrugging it back on. "You may have some proof after all, we'll see. I'm the faculty member contact for the attacks, and there's just been another one."

Killian's heart swooped sickeningly as he followed Henry out, down the steps, into the blossoming morning, and across Quincy Street to Harvard Yard, the center of campus, and the freshman dorms on the far side. An ambulance with its siren off but its lights still flashing was parked outside, and there was a quickly gathering cluster of students, most still in their pajamas, as they wouldn't necessarily be awake yet if they didn't have morning classes, outside on the lawn. Henry hurried through them, Killian close behind, as the door of the residence hall opened and a pair of uniformed paramedics came through with a gurney, a young, brown-haired woman lying on it. The distinctive twin fang wounds, although healed, were clearly visible on her neck, and she was shivering and gasping in terror, hands jerking up as if to push someone away from her, when there was no one there. Another paramedic was trying to break up the crowd, shoo the gawkers away, as Henry shouldered up and began asking for details in an undertone.

Killian turned away, absurdly afraid that someone else would recognize him as a vampire – then stopped short. He had just caught that smell again, clear and sharp even among the jumble of other ones enshrouding the young woman, and it made his heart stop (well, figuratively). He breathed it again, hoping against hope that he was mistaken, but he wasn't. _What the. . .?_ Suddenly, he was reduced to wondering if even _he_ knew what the devil was going on, or if perhaps that entire scene in Emma's apartment had been a carefully staged tableau, meant to trick him into thinking it had been against her will when she in fact was working with the kidnappers. It had never been claimed that vampires were especially good at teamwork, but if everyone thus far was as out solely for themselves as it seemed, everybody was a dupe, an unwitting pawn on everyone else's chessboard. And he wasn't particularly fond of that. Being controlled. Being enslaved, being used. Being tricked, manipulated, and deceived.

He stood tensely as the young woman was loaded into the ambulance and it drove away, the crowd of students reluctantly filed back inside, and Henry finished his conversation with the paramedic. He started back toward Killian, then caught the look on his face and frowned. "What? Did you sense something?"

"Aye," Killian said tightly. "The identity of the vampire that did this to that poor girl."

"Zelena?" Henry tried to conceal his sudden flash of hope, clearly thinking that perhaps they were getting closer to some kind of solution after all. "It _was_ her?"

Killian hesitated. Didn't want to do this, didn't want to say this – but didn't want to be fooled either, and needed to know exactly what he had gotten into, and just how much of a risk he was running. "No," he said. "It was your mother."


	6. Chapter 6

"No," Henry said. "My mother's not that kind of vampire."

"Aye, I'm sure she volunteers at a home for the elderly and knits wee paw-warmers for werewolves on the weekends." Killian revolved on the spot, fighting the urge to run after the departed ambulance and try to get a better whiff of the girl – which would make them think he was either someone with a ghoulish interest in tragedy or the lower breed of solicitor (not that there was always a difference between the two). Either way, getting access to her and asking her any more questions would require the use of power that he presently did not have and would have to fight through the effects of the daylight shot, and there was no telling what the mesmer would do in her current state. From her actions as she was being wheeled out, it looked as if it had been applied, but only imperfectly – she didn't know if what had happened to her was dream or reality, was convinced it might be happening again right now, hounding her with flashbacks and shadows and demons. Either someone who hadn't known what they were doing at all had put it on her, or someone who knew _exactly_ what they were doing had put it on her, dragging out the torment and making it impossible for anyone to take her as a credible witness, not until they got the mental trauma under control. And Emma Swan had not struck Killian as an incompetent sort. If she was involved, whatever she had done had been on purpose.

That thought gave him a chill. She hadn't struck him – such as Henry put it, _that kind of vampire_ , the kind who enjoyed and fed on and engendered pain – but then again, he was reminded of how little their acquaintance actually amounted to. The possible fact that, as much as he didn't want to consider it, she knew exactly who had framed him in the Old Ones registry and brought him to Boston to finish the job. It wouldn't be a reach. Unlike werewolves, who by nature were a communal species, banding together in packs and living in dens and running in the light of the moon, and outside whatever minimal amount of a local queen's authority was required to settle into a new territory and get a feed from a drone if they needed one, most vampires were out for themselves. That didn't equate to rule-breaking, as you could live perfectly well by yourself and for yourself without crossing over to the wrong side of the law, but the fact that Killian and Regina, themselves vampires, had been carrying lethal vampire-hunting weapons this morning was no aberration. They had outlawed hunting and killing innocent mortals for sport in 1707; they hadn't gotten a comprehensive Violence Against Fellow Immortals Act through the witan until 1940, and only then since the Third Reich was making shameless use of vampires and werewolves to do the bidding of Hitler the devoted amateur occultist and hack fantasist. As ever, it had taken that depth of tragedy for the rest of the complacent world to decry it. For every Van Helsing, so-called heroic scourge of the supernatural devilry, there was a vampire who'd killed ten times more of his own kind. In the mortal world they were war heroes; in the immortal world they were just monsters. _We're honest about that, at least._

"How can you be sure?" Henry pressed, when Killian said nothing further. "Was it a smell or something? Maybe it was just someone similar to hers. Even if it was her, there must be more to the story. She wouldn't do that unprovoked."

"Henry," Killian said frankly, deciding that if they were going to get anywhere, they'd have to drop the formalities. "I respect and admire your faith in your mum, and I do hope it will prove to be justified, but there's no way to be mistaken. A vampire's scent can be detected as clearly as I see you in front of me now, and it's. . . it's hers. Could be, as you said, that some nasty sort had a hand in it, but if we were to find the answer to that, nearly everyone's bloody problems would be over. And to start, we'd have to find her. Do you know if your mother has a place she'd go if she wasn't returning to her apartment, somewhere she'd want to lie low?"

Henry paused, then shook his head. "She's never told me much about her life, her routines. I think it's to protect me, as she doesn't want someone showing up to try to torture it out of me. Or charm it out of me," he added, with a significant sidelong glance at Killian. "Besides, we. . . it. . . it's complicated. She was turned when I was ten, and I didn't really see her again until I was twenty-six and in the first year of my Ph.D. The Nolans, my adoptive parents, they're the ones who took me in and raised me. I know what happened now, and why she basically went crazy and vanished from my life overnight after my dad had already died, but there's still. . ." He caught himself and clamped his mouth shut, clearly having not intended to reveal so much to a mysterious vampire of uncertain allegiances. "It's complicated," he repeated. "You see?"

"Yes," Killian agreed, telling himself that it was quite mendacious to view the main takeaway from this conversation as the fact that Henry's father was long dead. "Well, good on you to mend fences, it can't have been easy. You seem to know quite a bit about our world, though."

"I _am_ an academic," Henry pointed out. "Research is what I do for a living."

Killian reckoned this was true, as he'd already seen that particular character trait in action, and winced; he was having a hard bloody time with the shot right now. Probably it was also like drinking in that the older you got, the worse you felt after it was over. Seeing his discomfort, Henry said, "Would you prefer we got back inside?"

"I'll do." He grimaced again. "Likely you have work waiting, I don't want to keep you from – "

"It can wait," Henry said. "I don't have any classes today, and even if I did, I'd cancel them. This is more important. Where are we going?"

Killian glanced at him in surprise. "You're trusting me?"

Henry considered. "No," he said after a moment. "Not exactly. But I recognize that if you wanted to hurt me, you already had plenty of chances, and you could easily have lied and told me it was someone other than Emma, even if you don't seem to think it sounds like her either. As well, another student's just been badly attacked, and no matter how much Oxford University Press wants the final copy of my book galley by the end of the week, this is still more of a priority. How have you been getting around? Do you know Boston at all?"

"Walking, or riding shotgun with Regina," Killian admitted. "And I don't have a bloody clue about this place. I haven't been to America since about the Taylor administration."

Henry looked at him sharply, then laughed. "Zachary Taylor? As in thirty-two presidents ago? It's changed a bit since then."

"So I've noticed."

They started into a brisk walk across the Yard, back toward the faculty parking lot where they located Henry's vehicle, a sleek silver Honda Accord. A tiny jewel copy of the _Children's and Household Tales of the Brothers Grimm_ hung from the rearview mirror, along with a miniature Red Sox baseball and the apparently ubiquitous fuzzy dice, which seemed to be another fad the popularity of which eluded Killian completely. It was the book, however, that he regarded with interest. "You work on fairytales?"

"Yeah." Henry started the car and reversed out. "Bit of a shock when I found out about your world, as you can imagine. I published a paper not long ago on _Dracula_ as metaphor for fin de siècle Western Europe's fear of immigration, and specifically Dracula coded as Eastern European/Jewish predator – a literal bloodsucker with characteristically Semitic features, who operates in the shadows and can't be stopped. The gender politics of Mina and Lucy are pretty troublesome too, a commentary on a particular kind of idealized Victorian womanhood that was being challenged at the turn of the twentieth century. Mina, the dutiful wife, survives her encounter with the monstrous, while Lucy, the loose woman, falls prey to Dracula's seduction and eternal fate." He accelerated through a yellow light. "Then, of course, there's _Twilight,_ and we all know what happened there."

"Nothing ever turns out the way we expected from the stories, does it?" Killian gave him a wry smile. "Where are we headed, by the way?"

"To my mom's apartment." Henry took the exit for the Longfellow Bridge.

"What – no, I can't let you go in there. Whatever took her might be lying in wait for you. If that happened, if she _is_ being coerced, they have a ready-made blackmail counter."

"Then you'll just have to come along, won't you?" Henry arched a conspiratorial eyebrow at him, in a way that made Killian grin despite himself. "You _do_ want to find out who did this?"

"Of course. But I'm not liable to be much help if things hot up. This is my second day awake in a row and I'm on the bloody booster shot, so my powers are at the crap end of the spectrum currently. Just don't think you're walking in with some sort of unmatchable weapon." He groaned, fighting the burn up the back of his nose and his stinging eyes. "Bloody hell, much more of this and I'll just ask you to stake me and put me out of my misery."

"I'll keep that in mind," Henry said. "If you don't mind me asking, how old _are_ you?"

Killian hesitated. For all that the lad clearly had a working knowledge of the supernatural world and some of its peculiarities, he didn't know everything; hence the impolitic use of the term "bloodsucker" before and now inquiring directly after a vampire's age, which while not openly taboo was still not the stuff of polite conversation. Still, though. Henry had taken a chance on him, which he prayed did not end the same as when Emma had. "Three hundred and thirteen."

Henry whistled, realized this might be rude, and said, "Sorry. And you qualify as an Old One after the age of. . . two hundred?"

"Two hundred and fifty. If you've made it that long, you're strong enough and smart enough to be quite dangerous, if you choose. Speaking of which. . . likewise, none of my damn business and you can tell me to sod off if you want, but if it was a choice between death and vampirism, which would you take?"

Henry didn't answer for a moment, and Killian presumed he had already transgressed the boundaries of whatever fragile armistice existed between them. No wonder; it was a personal question even for vampires themselves, some of which (himself included) had become such against their will and never forgot it no matter how old and accomplished they became. Then Henry said thoughtfully, "I don't know. I've tried to work it out before, make a pro and con list. Sometimes I think I might choose vampirism, just because I'm afraid of not having enough time, of not getting to do everything I want. Then other times, honestly, I think nothing is worth it."

Killian nodded silently, supposing that was fair enough, and abruptly wondering if he, had he been given the option to refuse, to die a human rather than living forever as a monster, would have been brave enough to make it. It was certainly what he had wanted, then and for a long time after, and came close to achieving more than once. Small wonder that after Gold's death, he had shut himself up in Russell Square and drunk himself into a stupor (difficult to achieve when you had to do it via blood first, but not at all impossible for an immortal of his spectacular capabilities) for decades. Had nothing to do, no purpose, no interest in life or death, only a dull blur of something barely even existence that had passed and passed. Wasted. As much as he couldn't help but wonder if it had been a mistake to come to Boston, it was the most he had lived, the most he had tried, the most he had been _anything_ in a human lifetime and a half, and it was changing him, somehow. Working its way into his heart, making him want things again, struggle for them, risk for them, and that was dangerous and terrible and wonderful to behold.

They turned up before Emma's apartment building a few minutes later, and Henry executed the trick, remarkable for an individual of any species, of finding an open spot and parallel parking on the first try. He fed the meter, and they headed inside, took the lift to the eleventh floor, and advanced cautiously down the hall to the door at the end, Henry brandishing a crowbar from the trunk and Killian supposing that his job would be to bite any intruders directly on the arses. _If I can catch them first._ God, he wanted to drop dead right now. There was probably irony inherent in the fact that this was his chief desire after finally snapping out of his previous catatonia, but fuck it. He hated daylight shots with his entire being and was never taking one again.

Henry pushed the door open gingerly, peered through, and stepped inside, looking around warily with crowbar poised for action. When nothing sallied forth to inventively devour him, he turned and said to Killian, "Come inside."

Thus invited, Killian followed him in, trying to judge if anything looked different from his last visit. It certainly did not appear that Emma had been home, or that any further monsters had paid a call; even their bags were still where he had dropped them. So the intruders either hadn't been after such trivial things, or his previous hypothesis that this was a setup was unfortunately correct. It might be hypocritical of him to hope that another vampire wasn't actually as bad as it looked, after everything he had done, but he did. He wanted Emma to be innocent of this. But even if she was, it looked most convincingly like his fault to her, and she would probably kill him on sight without any chance for explanations. If he was smart, he would just let this destroy his nascent hope and go straight back to embittered cynicism, save himself the trouble of it happening anyway in a longer and more painful and drawn-out fashion, but. . .

"Not here," Henry concluded, having effected a brief search of the kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom. "And she probably won't be coming back, if she knows it's compromised. Can you track her by scent?"

"Aye, but not to anywhere else than that warehouse in Salem where they were already holding her prisoner." Killian drummed his fingers restlessly on the polished-granite countertop. Catching sight of Henry's face, he realized he had forgotten to fill in a rather crucial bit of information, and provided the judiciously abridged version of his and Regina's adventures that morning, the fact that she had either escaped or been strategically set loose, and the fact that while silver chains seemed a bit far to go in service of a masquerade, he still couldn't be sure if it was something she had set up in cahoots with Zelena. Making a second trip back there now, he stressed, was most unwise. Henry was only a human with a crowbar and he was nearly as weak as one at the present moment, as well as possessed with a constant urge to sneeze and/or disintegrate on the spot. Zelena had likely also discovered their incursion and upped her security, and no matter who had ultimately set the trap, he was not about to be the one to spring it.

"But what if she's there?" Henry had gotten a stubborn look. "We couldn't just _leave_ her with those people!"

"Lad, as I said, I want to believe you when you say your mother wouldn't do something like this, but the fact is, we don't know. And those are not people. They are monsters. Monsters that the two of us, at this current instance, have no chance of handling alone. I'll talk to my sister, see if she can draft in backup if we _do_ need to rescue Emma, but we can't do it like this. Besides, your mum is a formidable prospect. I'm not going to damn our odds thinking she's a fragile feminine flower and must be whisked out at the cost of everything else, because I know that's not true. She can handle herself until we work out what's really going on."

Henry looked as if he wasn't entirely sure about this, but said nothing to demur. They completed one more sweep of the apartment, took Killian's briefcase, and locked the door behind them, Killian putting the key under the mat so Emma at least wouldn't think he'd stolen it or was holding it hostage. As they headed back down to Henry's car, he said, "This is just a guess, but do you think your mother has any friends among the werewolves? She was. . . ah. . . teasing me about one of my acquaintances the other night, it didn't seem like something she held an absolute moral objection to."

Henry paused, thinking. Then he said, "There might be one. Her name's Ruby, I think. Ruby Lucas. She and my mom have been friends for a long time. I don't know anything about her other than that she's a werewolf, though."

"That's not a problem, I can likely open investigations on other fronts. And if we turned up out of the blue, I imagine they'd feel rather. . . threatened. Don't want to start a second immortal war if we're already dangling on the verge of the first."

"Surely you don't mean the first ever," Henry said, laying on the horn and abruptly switching into a far more Bostonian tone of voice as a taxi cut in front of him without signaling. Then as if nothing had happened, he went on, "You two have been at war for most of your history, as far as I remember. When did you finally outlaw immortal-on-immortal violence again – 1939?"

"1940," Killian corrected, unsettled that Henry was so close to the mark. "Only as the rest of the world went to war anyway, and it took some time after that to get it anywhere close to enforced. That's barely a blink of an eye for us, so you can see why it's delicate."

"Only a few years after the Cold War ended, relatively speaking," Henry agreed. "Why do you think it took so long? Hasn't violence against humans been illegal since seventeen-something?"

"1707." Killian felt an odd pride in the lad's acuity. "As with any law, there's never been any time it was completely followed, but I suppose it was because vampires and werewolves have always viewed humans as helpless. The women and children of the world, so to speak, and humanity has always had laws protecting women and children at least in theory, and acted as if they were willing to go further to defend them, in order to prove their civility. A lie, of course, as those are often the most abused, but appearances must be tended to. It was the same with us. So around the time it became important for immortals to show that they too were rational and enlightened beings, civilized and elegant and far from the brutish beasts feared in folklore, they passed the edict. Just as with humans, fighting each other was still considered quite normal."

"That makes sense," Henry said after a moment. "Not very reassuring, since if people like this Zelena get enough followers, you _do_ have the ability to take down the human world without breaking much of a sweat. Though I have to admit, we're doing a great job of that ourselves."

Killian raised an eyebrow, as if to say that it was permissible for Henry to critique the human race since he was one himself, but censure from an immortal would just be rude. This alone was the most interesting or in-depth conversation he had had with anyone in too bloody long to remember, and he had a feeling that he could happily sit and pick Henry's brain for hours, but they still had to focus on the mission. "So, no turning up on Miss Lucas directly, but for a gentleman of your considerable supernatural intelligence, might you be aware of any other locations in Boston where the lupine half of our brethren congregate?"

Henry shot him an amused look, which confused Killian until he realized he had accidentally referred to "our" brethren, as if Henry was a fellow vampire. "I'm pretty sure their turf is in Dorchester. We could head there, I suppose. Unless they'd beat us up on sight if they thought you were the one behind the Harvard attacks."

"Point." Killian rubbed a hand over his face, cursing the way every door seemed to be slamming shut before them. He was prepared to do a considerable amount to find Emma Swan, if finding her was even a wise idea right now, and told himself it was only from the novelty of the adventure, of dragging himself into the wider world again, but it rang thin even in the privacy of his thoughts. She had entranced him, enchanted him, and considering his history, that could only go very badly. "And turning up to question the latest victim in hospital would be bad form. The poor girl's been through more than enough, by the looks of things. Did you get her name?"

"Aurora Stefanopolis. She's a freshman."

"Was she in any of your classes?"

"Yes. Introduction to Gothic Literature, 1800-1850." Henry frowned, tapping his fingers on the wheel, as something occurred to him. "In fact, _all_ the students who've been attacked have been in one or other of my classes, and I'm as overworked as any adjunct, but that seems like too much coincidence to swallow. God, how didn't I see this before? They've been targeting people connected to me from the start!"

"Bloody hell." Killian wished this made him more certain that Emma was an innocent victim caught in the crossfire, but it had the opposite effect. She'd certainly be placed for picking off students in contact with her son – but why? Free agents though they might be, vampires rarely did things for no reason. They were too coldly calculated and methodical for that. He supposed that if this was so, Henry really had taken an extraordinary risk trusting him, and he swore once more that there would be no reason to regret it. "And while it's clear you're no vampire and hence couldn't be responsible, the trail would eventually lead directly to. . ."

"My mother," Henry completed. "Yes. But she's not the most powerful or famous or dangerous vampire in Boston. Far from it. She's just ordinary. And if this was ultimately a plot against Regina, there are plenty of people closer to her than Emma is. So I still can't think what they would be trying to accomplish here."

Killian, however, suddenly could. "Unless they wanted to outlaw her and vilify her in the eyes of the entire supernatural community, have her arrested for murder – which they already tried to do in the case of connecting her to the death of Lily Page. Have her treated like a monster, drive her away from the rest of her kind, so that she had only one place to turn. Zelena."

"And that could be why they meddled with the Old Ones registry," Henry said, cottoning on. "So people would think you were her accomplice, the one actually carrying out the Harvard attacks on her direction – at full strength, I imagine there probably aren't many who could stop you. You did say you're the blood brother of this crazy Zelena woman, right? So she could take you _and_ Regina down while also nabbing Emma. It must have been too tempting to resist."

"Bloody hell," Killian muttered again. It was reasonably clear that they were on the right track here, in all its chilling implications – not least of which was the question of who Zelena was working with in London, what high-level insider she had capable of changing such a secret and guarded record. The obvious answer was another Old One, as only they could gain access to it in private without raising suspicion, and that was just a bloody wonderful hornet's nest. _We are only beginning to discover how far this goes._

"Well," he said, having taken a moment to swear inventively and extensively under his breath. "You may be right after all that your mother is being framed in this as well. But we need to find another source of information that isn't Regina – as despite her doubtless gold-starred efforts, she had no idea that Zelena was back in town, so we can't trust her intelligence alone. She did mention something about a new blood bar, though. And drinkers always talk, no matter what they're having."

"A vampire bar?" Henry looked intrigued. "I've never been to one."

"Aye. It won't open until after sundown, as there is entirely no point and purpose running a business aimed at vampires during the day, but we should plan on making a visit there tonight."

Henry grinned. "Will I stand out?"

"No, not necessarily. Vampires often bring drones out with them, as I am told it is considered socially desirable to make some sort of effort before merely clamping down on them. Anyone will only suspect you are the same."

"Good," Henry said. "As long as there's no actual biting involved."

"No actual biting. Scout's honor."

"You never were a Scout, were you?"

"No, but I couldn't think of anything better to say."

"Well then. We're on."

* * *

 They spent the rest of the day at Harvard, Henry working through the disaster in his in-tray while Killian holed up in a dark closet and tried to stop his head from pounding. He wondered how Regina was holding up, then decided it was probably bloody better than him; she would have had a feed and a lie-down, rather than trotting all over kingdom come, in broad daylight, like an idiot. He could smell each of the passing humans and it was making him so hungry he almost couldn't stand it, eyeballs twirling in his head and his fangs cutting into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and increase the hunting instinct, but he held himself brutally in check. Vampires didn't eat three meals a day like humans did, otherwise their time would be spent doing nothing else, but once every few days to a week was considered standard. Older ones needed it more often, and considering the wringer Killian had been through, he was running dangerously low. Even if obviously not on Henry, he needed to eat somewhere. Another perk of their intended destination. If some unsuspecting janitor didn't open this closet and find a dead vampire before then, which was certain to be rather a nasty shock.

At last, he heard a rap on the door, uncurled himself stiffly to find Henry waiting for him, and the sun down and the sky dark enough to make him feel somewhat better. They trucked out of campus and got back into Henry's car, then drove down to the waterfront, as that was where Regina had said it was and Killian was confident he could locate it from there.

It took a few minutes, but he did. It looked like an underground pub that had recently closed down, doors boarded up and signs on the dark windows, and he and Henry went down the steps, examined it, then went in. Crossing the empty space, with a few old tables and restaurant booths and even a bar with dusty taps added for effect, they reached a dark, narrow corridor at the back, proceeded single file down it, and terminated at a door. Passing through this, they were greeted by the glow of candlelight and a hum of conversation, and a plaque on the wall reading _Speak Friend and Enter_ , which both served as a general invitation so vampires could come and go freely and a geeky Tolkien reference, as immortals liked their high fantasy novels as much as anyone and some rather literal wars had been fought over _Dungeons and Dragons._ For that matter, the name of the bar, etched in handsome uncial over the door, was _Carpe Diem._

Henry looked at it a moment, then laughed. "It's a joke," he said. "Carpe diem, seize the day. Because you can't actually go out during the day. Never mind."

Killian snorted, but led them in, caught the maître-d's eye, and asked for two menus, one human and one vampire. As he had hoped, this was quite usual for the establishment, which had probably already hosted an award-winning number of awkward dinner dates, and he was soon perusing the blood selections on offer (with the birthdate, gender, and general lifestyle of the human donor listed, so you could decide whether you wanted to sip on, say, 1977 funky hippie, 1990 female Whole Foods shopper, or 1960 male red-meat-eater and beer swiller). Henry's options were doubtless more prosaic, but the waiter returned and Killian ordered a 1965 female law-enforcement officer and Henry a Sam Adams and a cheeseburger. If he noticed any similarities to his mother's birthdate and occupation, he was gracious enough not to say so.

Killian had gotten them seats at the bar, and after he had polished off his first drink, had a second, and consequently felt somewhat more like himself, he struck up a bantering repartee with the bartender, taking full advantage of his projected image as a charmingly ignorant English tourist bumbling around America with his friend here to stop him from getting into any terrible trouble. Henry sold it convincingly, agreeing that he had known Killian since he was a kid and it was strange that they were now the same physical age, and they all had a good hearty laugh about the shenanigans of immortal/mortal dynamics, wasn't it just _zany._ On that note, Killian was sure it was safe here, wasn't it? He read things in the British papers about how America was a gun-toting free-for-all barely this side of _Lord of the Flies,_ and while he as a vampire was not worried about such things, he still hoped he hadn't walked into some lurid crime drama. Nothing particularly was happening here, right?

At this, the bartender exchanged a glance with one of his waiters, as if to say, _Can you believe this guy?_ He was clearly one of the Americans who pictured Britain as essentially Harry Potter with quaint little villages filled with quaint little people wearing tweed who sat down at exactly 4pm to drink tea and sing "God Save the Queen" (and well, there were places where he wasn't wrong). It took some coaxing, but he finally came clean with the story of the ongoing Harvard crisis. And while it was definitely worrisome and he hoped they busted the perps and put a stop to it, but he angrily wanted to know why the werewolf attacks in New York weren't getting as much press. Did people think it was only the Teeth who did bad things? There had been an equal number of unexplained Tail activities in the Big Apple in this same timeframe, and nobody seemed as worked up about _them._ It probably had to do with something something Major League Baseball was letting the Yankees cheat and unduly targeting the Red Sox, just as the NFL clearly hated the Patriots for being so successful and had it out for them any way they could. Q.E.D.

At that, Killian and Henry exchanged a long look, as they too had not heard anything about werewolf attacks in New York. Perhaps it was a reflection of the insular nature of supernatural communities; one did not necessarily know the goings-on of any other, and they had been preoccupied enough with their current problem that they had never thought to question if this might not just be a Boston-specific issue. But how would _werewolf_ attacks serve Zelena's purpose, or was this just another localized trouble spot? Werewolves were immune to mesmer, so she couldn't be forcing them. And there was no werewolf alive who'd work for her willingly, let alone a pack of them, so perhaps some opportunistic New York alpha had taken advantage of the unrest in Boston to decide that if vampires were breaking the rules, so could he. Which could lead to exactly the kind of escalating conflict that Killian had mentioned in the car, started for the same chaotic, misunderstood, stupid reasons all wars started. _Bloody hell._

Pressing the bartender for details as unsuspiciously as they could didn't get them much further; he didn't know anything besides the fact that they were happening. The person sitting next to them had plenty of theories on who might be responsible for the Harvard attacks, but as the one and only suspect was the government, it didn't look as if this would be as fertile an avenue of inquiry as they hoped. Still, there was this werewolf complication to look into, and that was definitely one for the investigation dossier. He wasn't sure what to think of how quickly he was warming to the idea of them as private eyes, detectives working on a tough case. Just a make-believe, absurdly childish for a man over three hundred years old. One, though, he didn't want to give up just yet.

He paid their tab with money from his stolen wallet and was about to ask if they could make a base of operations at Henry's house for the night, as he still wasn't sure if Zelena had spies planted among Regina's drones; he didn't want to risk exposure to them just in case. Then he became aware that Henry was staring across the bar with an expression on his face, for all that he was a grown man with an impeccable education and a respected job, exactly as if he was a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then he followed Henry's gaze.

Then he said, "Oh, _shit."_

* * *

 Emma had woken up after sundown with the vestiges of a headache, a very dry mouth, and an urgent, phantom need to pee that faded as she sat up, scrubbing at her face and swinging her legs over the side of the spare bed. When she shuffled to the closet door and opened it, she found Ruby about to leave for work and Mulan trying to get her laptop to stream some kind of Chinese TV show that seemed to involve insanely talented martial artists reducing an ever more improbable quantity of seemingly indestructible objects to rubble. Emma momentarily found herself wondering how their relationship worked. Mulan was human, had displayed no inclination to become a werewolf, and Ruby had to know that Mulan would grow old and die long before she did. Were there people who weren't afraid of losing a loved one, who had the ability to trust that they could move on and find someone else, that it was worth it to live with one person and then let them die if that was what they wanted, even if it meant their time together might be short? It seemed both optimistic and naïve, sweet but dangerous. Not something she could do, for sure.

"Oh, Emma, you're up." Ruby looked at her with evident relief. "I bought some ONeg, it's in the fridge, and you're totally welcome to come and go as you please. If you're lying low, though. . ."

"Yeah, I'm not interested in leading Zelena directly here either." Emma pushed her hair out of her eyes. "I don't think I'll be going out for a while, if I can avoid it. Unless you've heard of the whereabouts of one Killian Jones?"

"Who?" Ruby said blankly.

"The bastard who got me into this mess. I brought him back from London the other night. Turns out that was a really stupid idea, which I should have expected." Emma tried to speak lightly, carelessly, but her voice trembled despite herself. "Turns out he's Zelena and Regina's older brother, and he picked the crazy one to work with. Waited until I was unconscious and handed me over to her. I still don't even know exactly when or how or anything."

"That's _awful."_ Ruby bristled territorially, eyes turning yellow at the magnitude of this insult to her friend, before the moment of wolfing out passed. "I sent some wolves to Harvard to check in on Henry this morning, just like you asked, and they said he's totally fine. Well, they saw him with some vampire, but they assumed he was one of Regina's and they didn't want to – "

"Saw him with a vampire?" Emma repeated, tensing. That wasn't usual for Henry; he wasn't exactly buddy-buddy with the supernatural world. She tried to decide if Regina would have exerted herself enough to send Henry a protection detail. It was just possible, but. . . "They _assumed_ he was one of Regina's? Doesn't your pack know the vampires of Boston by sight?"

"They said he smelled like her." Ruby was starting to look worried. "Same scentmark, and he and Henry were just talking, so they didn't think anything of it. Emma, is something wrong?"

"Shit." Emma raked her hands over her face. "Shit. Motherfucking shit. I think that was him. Jones. He's Regina's brother, of course they smell the same, they were made by the same sire. Did they mention what he looked like?"

"Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Leather."

"SHIT!" Emma grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be Mulan's dinner plate, and hurled it like a discus, lodging it into the wall, before overcoming her lapse, rushing to retrieve it, and trying to apologize while simultaneously forcing down her sudden panic. "That's definitely him. Son of a bitch. I mentioned Henry to him, he must have put the pieces together and gone after him. And that was when – this morning? God, that was _hours_ ago! Who knows what he's done or where they've gone by now!"

"Emma, slow down." Ruby galloped after her, trying to stop her headlong stride for the door. "It definitely doesn't sound good, but come on, you can't go after this guy alone, especially if he's as dangerous as you said! You need to wait, you need to call Regina, or even just Henry. See if he's all right. Before you jump to conclusions and – "

"And tip Jones off that I'm coming? Sorry, I don't think so." Emma's mind was racing. She had hunting weapons back at her apartment, but those had probably already been cleared out, and while the quickest way to get some was by stopping off at Regina's, she couldn't be sure that Regina, much as she might think her brother was an idiot, would allow her to cut him down in quite literally cold blood. Besides, she might delay her or put other obstacles in between her and Henry, and Emma couldn't forgive herself if that happened, when this delay was already bad enough. And while she knew Jones was dangerous, he was also off his footing, out of his territory, a stranger to Boston and all of its vampires, and no great shakes with technology or the modern world due to his self-imposed exile. She'd think of something.

"Emma." Ruby had a hand on her arm. "Emma, I know it's important, but – "

"My son is in danger. End of discussion." Emma pulled free. "Thanks for the bed, Ruby. I hope I'll be seeing you soon, but honestly, I have no idea."

With that, while Ruby was still staring after her, she exited the apartment, jogged down to street level, ensured that it was dark enough to kick things into high gear, and did so. The obvious place to start was Harvard, where she knew they had been spotted this morning, so – wishing that she'd remembered to take a gulp of ONeg before she stormed out, but equally determined not to a sort of punishment for what she'd done to Aurora Stefanopolis earlier – she did. Tracked down Henry's scent, and one that she recognized with an unpleasant jolt as Jones'. As if she'd needed any further confirmation of her suspicions that he was up to no good. _I'm coming, asshole._

From there, however, the trail wasn't as clear. It seemed to lead in the direction of her apartment, but she didn't want to go in there for obvious reasons. She told herself that she had to if Henry was for some reason being held hostage there, but she also didn't think that a vampire as old and clever as Jones would be so stupid as to do so in the one place he knew she would be able to get into if she chose, as well as her home ground. Besides, the scent then veered back to Harvard, which was confusing, and then toward the waterfront, and then. . .

Emma's heart, if it hadn't already done so twenty-two years previously, would have stopped as she ran into the parking lot, spotted Henry's silver Honda, and clanged down the steps into the closed-down pub. So this was the new blood bar that everyone had been talking about, or rather the entrance to it, used to keep humans out. It looked like a bit of a dive, but the actual décor must be far classier. Which she would find out in approximately thirty seconds, as she blitzed across the floor, down the corridor, and through the door beyond. The place was called _Carpe Diem._ Funny. You know, because vampires couldn't go outside during the day.

Her first impression was that she was correct, and it looked much nicer than the sham human pub it was attached to. It was still, however, a bar, and one with a clientele both mortal and immortal, which surprised her; she'd presumed, of course, that they only served blood and it was only frequented by vampires. Just showed her how little she still knew about things, the walls she'd kept up around herself. Looked like they served both human and vampire food. It was even the kind of place she wished she could actually go one day. Not with a date, her policy on those being well-stated. But still. Maybe with someone.

And yet all of these details, fascinating as they were and as quickly as she had taken them in, within the span of a few seconds, paled and faded into insignificance before the one great factor that dwarfed them all. Who was sitting at the bar with a drink, next to her son, who was staring at her in shock. Who had in fact, to judge from his own expression, just seen her too, and looked like the guilty-ass bastard he was – and who shortly would be, even if she had to do this messily in public before half the immortals of Boston, no longer a member of that storied club himself.

Killian fucking Jones.


	7. Chapter 7

A very long, very loud silence descended on the bar as more heads turned, further stock was taken of the very angry vampire in the doorway, the large immortal in a suit cracked his knuckles and weighed up whether aggressive bouncing services were about to be called for, and Emma advanced into the middle of them like the Red Death crashing the masquerade ball. Patrons watched her furtively from behind their drinks (whatever sort those were), clearly hoping that things would not devolve into total mayhem before they at least had time to grab their phones (or choose their sides). If it got particularly spectacular, the footage would definitely end up on Fangd (though as noted, vampires did not show up well on cameras and it would mostly look like two blurs wafting indignantly back and forth, hardly riveting or viral viewing). Bar brawls were usually the provenance of werewolves anyway – fun, reckless, recreational violence engaged in for the hell of it and on the slenderest of pretexts, and which was usually forgotten by the next day anyway. When vampires went head to head, it was more like single-combat, pistols-at-dawn, one-of-you-is-not-walking-away-from-this mortal confrontation. No wonder everyone was looking a little nervous.

The bartender, having sized up the situation, glanced from Emma to Jones and Henry, both of whom were looking just as stunned to see her. "Boys' night without telling the wife first?" he guessed. "Yeah, my friend, you're fucked."

"I am _not_ his wife." Emma came to a bristling halt, knowing that her eyes were glowing like red cinders and her fangs were fully bared, as threatening a posture as a vampire could assume without outright biting into your carotid artery. "I don't want to make this unduly difficult or expensive for anyone, so I'll start by asking nicely. Henry, get away from him. I don't know what he's told you, but he's a lunatic."

"Actually." Henry swallowed visibly, but got up and interposed himself between the two of them, holding out his hands. "Mom, I know what it looks like, I know what you're thinking right now, but there's a lot of the story you missed out on. Because – "

"Because _he_ handed me over to – to her!" Emma tried to keep her voice to a cutting hiss, conscious of the fact that the entire bar was already staring, and remaining vigilant to the potential need to block an attempted getaway on Killian Jones' part. Though he hadn't gotten to his feet yet, or bared his fangs in return, or done anything aside from glance at her in an odd, guarded way she couldn't quite read. He didn't _look_ like he was about to paint the town literally red against her, but who knew why he did what he did? "Henry, we can talk about this in a minute, now get out of the way and let me deal with – "

"No." Henry didn't budge. "We need to talk _now,_ and somewhere that's not in the middle of a crowded restaurant. This way."

He jerked his head, and Jones got up and followed him across the still-gaping dining room to a hall at the back, which led toward a private room used for parties. Emma hesitated, then decided at least they could agree on the need to cut down their audience, and stalked after them, every nerve on high alert for the possibility of a trap. Of course she didn't think Henry would hurt her, or even be able to, but it was possible that he was under Jones' mesmer and acting as one of his drones. Though she couldn't detect any trace of it, or see any bite marks on his neck, and her initial rage was swiftly dissolving into a rich murk of disbelief, confusion, aggravation, and impatience. Yes, it was a relief that Henry was in one piece and more or less in command of himself and nothing evidently terrible had happened yet, but how was she supposed to square that with the fact that Killian had – that he had – that Zelena had said –

It occurred to Emma then that she had already second-guessed her decision to trust Killian enough that she was primed and ready to believe Zelena's version of things without a single question – which, she realized now, _might_ not have been the wisest course of action. But she didn't want to admit this or put herself back on the disadvantage, and by the time they reached the party room and shut the door, she had retracted her fangs and dialed down the bristle, but still remained tense and wary as a cat stuck up a tree, viewing the firefighters below with suspicion and disdain. After several moments of increasingly excruciating silence, she said, "So. Killian Jones."

The target of this address looked around in every direction, in the fond and forlorn hope that there might be another Killian Jones in the room whom she was actually speaking to. Finding none, he sighed deeply and said, "Yes?"

"I want an explanation."

"I want one first." He eyed her with that maddeningly blue gaze of his, hand resting lightly on the table, his entire body seemingly at rest but tuned to that exquisite pique between stillness and action, ready to snap from one to the other in a fraction of a second if called for. It disturbed Emma how easily she could sense it. "After all, you have to see that this looks just as confusing and potentially threatening to me as it does to you."

"As confusing and threatening to _you?"_ Emma choked. "After you set me up to be – ?"

"I did no such thing," Killian Jones interrupted angrily. "We were ambushed after we arrived at your place of residence, I was shot with a silver dart, and someone took you. A bloodie by the looks of things, and I'm by now well aware they were in the service of Zelena, who doubtless – "

"I'm the one who had to deal with her, I'm not sure why you expect me to think – "

" – can't be sure it wasn't something you set up together, bringing me here and then – "

" _Enough!"_ Henry interrupted, looking thoroughly exasperated, as if he had attempted to bring his divorced parents together for a civil chat and was now forced into the role of the only adult in the room. "How about you let me explain, since neither of you is willing to let the other go first. Then we can settle this _without_ any biting. God, you're like five-year-olds. With sharper teeth."

Emma and Killian flinched in unison, grumbled, folded their arms, and gave reluctant nonverbal assent to this proposal, determinedly avoiding each other's gaze.

" _Thank_ you." With an imploring glance at the ceiling, Henry pulled up a chair, appointed himself mediator, and launched into the story to date as he had heard it from both of them, as both of them looked initially unconvinced but finally began to frown and mutter. By the time he had finished, neither of them had anything to say, which had to be a first.

"So?" Henry said deliberately, glancing from side to side, when the two of them still failed to volunteer anything. "Can you see why it wouldn't have been a good idea to race in, assume you knew what was going on, and bite each other's heads off?"

Emma flinched again. "Henry, you can't blame me for wanting to make sure you were safe, especially after what it looked like had – "

"No," he said evenly, and she realized that beneath the restraint, he was just as angry with her, perhaps more. "But now I think it's _my_ turn for an explanation. I've been telling Killian this entire time that you're not the kind of vampire who attacks innocent girls for fun, and that whatever reason you had for sending Aurora Stefanopolis to the hospital traumatized this morning, it wasn't something you wanted. I'd like it if you'd expand on that, please."

Emma ran a hand over her face, noting that familiar use of "Killian" with some disquiet; apparently they'd gotten thick as thieves while she was unavoidably detained. "I didn't have a choice," she said numbly, not entirely able to meet their eyes. "I was trying to protect you."

With that, as much as it went against her instincts to open up, to share, to reveal the weakness and the horror of what had gone on during her unfortunate stint in captivity, she had to do so. To tell them what had happened with Zelena and Lily and the hunt, the choice Zelena had given her and the fact that if she hadn't fed on Aurora, something much worse would have happened to all of them. Her voice caught and roughened as she stumbled over the words, and she coughed, trying to disguise it. She also noticed that Killian's irritation had palpably softened, and he was now regarding her with a kind of troubled sympathy, which unsettled her; she'd almost have preferred the anger. When she was finished, he said softly, "I'm sorry you had to go through that, love."

"It's fine." Emma hunched her shoulders, fighting that twist in her stomach, wanting to escape from the undeniable sincerity in his voice. From anyone else she would have thought it a mere placation, a rote response, but simple as it was, she could feel that he more than meant every word. That he took it upon himself in some part for failing to keep her safe as she had trusted him to do, that he viewed it as a failure and a judgment more on him than on her, and she didn't know what to do with that. It was safer to wall it away. "All's well that ends well, right?"

"Except it isn't," Henry said. "We've got a whole Jenga stack of problems, and we don't know which piece to tug on first. We have whatever the hell Zelena is doing with this Naomi person, who Naomi even is, and why they want Emma so badly. We have whoever framed Killian back in London, and we _think_ it's related to this but we don't know for sure – as well, who sent those thirty vampires to ambush Emma. We have these reports of werewolf attacks in New York, which is possibly some rogue pack leader deciding he has no obligation to follow the law if the vampires aren't – but again, we don't know for sure, and that's bad enough either way. We have the fact that students in my classes are being used for Zelena's demented vampire training program, which even a non-supernatural is going to work out before much longer and which kind of puts my job in jeopardy. Not even to mention the fact that I'm supposed to deliver a hundred pages of final proofs to the OUP editorial department in – " he checked his watch – "about eighteen and a half hours. If anyone's had any clever ideas, please, share."

Emma and Killian exchanged a look. It was reasonably obvious to both of them that they needed Henry's help, but if they went any further with it, it would be irreversible, and he had plenty of pressing and more ordinary problems which might make it difficult for him to commit fully to the cause. As well, if he came along, he would be faced with the kind of danger from which he could not readily defend himself, and which they would have to accept the responsibility of – as well as the fact that they would have to live with it forever if they failed to protect him. Trying to keep him out of the loop altogether was also clearly not an option, as ignorance would be just as dangerous if there were still factions out there trying to get at Emma through him, and as he had said, stopping the attacks was going to become a question of keeping his job – or even avoiding criminal charges – if they went on for much longer. But there was, also as he had said, no easy starting point, no obvious answer, nothing that obviously presented itself to be dealt with first. It loomed in front of them like a colossus, huge and ominous and impassable.

"All right," Emma said at last. "We need to warn Regina that Zelena probably has a spy in her house, and to be careful who she talks with and what she tells them. Maybe she can arrange a full-time campus presence to stand guard. We'd need to coordinate with the werewolves so they can do it by day and the vampires by night – I'll have to ask Ruby about that. Jones, do you have anyone that you trust back in London who might be able to find out who's been into the Old Ones registry recently?"

"Well, trust is a bit of a strong word," Killian said wryly. "But the only one who'd merit it at all is the one you already met."

"What, him? Will Scarlet?" Emma was caught short at the idea that the speed demon of Southwark would possess the temperament for delicate undercover work, especially when the subject in question was vampires and he was a werewolf who, to say the least, did not appear to have ever met the word "subtle" in his life. "Nobody else?"

"I didn't exactly have a vibrant social circle, love. And if there's one thing that can be said about Will, he's loyal. To a fault, really. He also happens to be an exceptionally talented thief. Half the stores in Greater London would arrest him the minute he walked in the door, if he was so foolish as to openly do so. If the job involves pinching something that doesn't belong to him, he's your man."

Emma grudgingly supposed that it was a bit hypocritical of her to start critiquing the personal morals of potential allies at this stage, even as she had to fight down another spasm of curiosity, and jealousy, about how Killian and Will had really met and whether the suspected sleeping together was just a one-time drunken misadventure or, you know, an ongoing thing. Not that she cared who Killian was sleeping with, or if he was sleeping with anyone. "All right, fine. Send him a carrier pigeon or whatever, see if he can get on it."

"I'm not _completely_ technologically illiterate, you know," Killian remarked. "I do know how to operate the Google and its mail system."

"Great. Send him an email, then. Henry, we know you need to finish your last-minute edits, so you should head home and get on that. We'll make sure someone is guarding the house. As for you and I – " she glanced at Killian – "we'll head to Regina's and see if she can tap any of her contacts in New York and find out what's going on there. Then we'll. . . figure it out, I guess."

He shrugged. "As you wish. It's somewhere to start, for certain. But if so. . . Emma?"

For some reason, that put her hackles up again. "Yes?"

"You were wrong about me," he said frankly, holding her gaze. "With the idea that I betrayed you at the first chance I had and handed you over to Zelena. I'm not going to hold a grudge or ask for an apology, as we've both thought the worst of each other and perhaps it was only natural, but if we're going to work together now, we can't do it with you constantly expecting me to try it again. I'll grant you the same courtesy. But if you're looking over your shoulder and withholding things or anything else you would do if you thought I was still a double agent, we're going to get bloody nowhere, and we should do ourselves a favor and quit."

Emma hesitated. She didn't like it, but he was right, and if she had encountered him when Henry wasn't around to defuse the situation, she knew herself well enough to admit that she probably wouldn't have given him a chance to explain or believed him if he had. Furthermore, he _had_ gone to Regina, followed her to Salem, and been ready to fight through Zelena's minions to get to her if she'd still been there – which she hadn't, and what had happened with Aurora was her burden of guilt, not his. "All right," she said stiffly. "I'll remember that in the future."

"And I'll try not to be ambushed and knocked out at an inconvenient moment, and let you get captured and put through that again." He spoke lightly enough, but with the same intensity of purpose, the sense that this was no mere frivolous or throwaway utterance but of direct relevance to his future conduct. He held out his hand. "Deal?"

She hesitated a moment more, then reached out, clasped it quickly, and ended up holding on just a moment too long. She tilted her chin back and looked into his eyes. "Deal."

* * *

The rest of the Carpe Diem clientele, who had clearly expected one or both of them to emerge from the back room in several pieces, were shocked (and perhaps somewhat disappointed) when Emma and Killian walked out peaceably enough, Henry bobbing in their wake like a duckling. Killian said, "Lovely night, isn't it?" to the bartender and stepped out, setting a brisk pace down the corridor, through the empty pub front, and out into the parking lot. Henry dug for his keys and headed for his car, telling them to keep him updated, and they promised to do so. Then once he had pulled out and his taillights had vanished down the road, they booked it for Regina's.

When they slowed down from vampire speed and turned into her street, the first thing both of them noticed was the large black Rolls-Royce Phantom parked across the way, in enough of a space-hogging fashion as to make it clear to the lowly plebeians that it felt perfectly entitled to do so and they would just have to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous inferior fortune. When they drew closer to her mansion, both of them noticed a pair of uniformed security guards – humans, but clearly ones who had played ball with the supernatural world quite long enough to know its tricks, and both armed with guns that fired silver bullets – stationed outside in the bushes, who touched their earpieces and stepped forward in unison at the sight of Emma and Killian. "Sir, ma'am, we need to clear you first. Just a moment."

Emma frowned, wondering if Regina had decided to hire more security in light of Zelena's return – which would be sensible, all things considered, but she couldn't figure out why she would outsource the job to unfamiliar human contractors, even ones who knew their way around. Confused, she let them wand her and Killian, not that this was particularly pertinent to stopping a vampire bent on mayhem; they didn't exactly need weapons, after all. But evidently they looked sufficiently innocuous as to be given the go-ahead, as the guards radioed on to whatever counterparts of theirs inside the house and moved aside, giving the verbal assent for them to enter. The two of them exchanged another glance, then proceeded warily up the steps and into the house beyond.

The first thing they noticed was more guards at the door of Regina's sumptuous nineteenth-century parlor, the one she only ever used to entertain important guests. Emma stalled, dragging her feet, but Killian gave her a look, urging her forward. "Come on, Swan," he said in an undertone. "We need to find out what's going on here."

Emma wasn't sure they did, but she supposed that running at this juncture might in fact look more suspicious. So they kept themselves to a sedate walk, reached the door, and knocked.

After a moment, Regina's voice answered, sounding ever so slightly odd. "Come in."

They did so – then both burned to a halt in their tracks, enough that the guards shutting the door behind them knocked them in the heels and made them stumble. That was due to the fact that sitting across from Regina in the golden moiré Louis XIV armchair, placidly stirring his china teacup of fresh blood with a silver spoon, was a dark-haired, neatly goateed man in a pinstriped suit and silk tie with diamond stickpin. He had blue eyes, a charmingly dimpled smile, and very white fangs on display in said smile, which remained even as he lifted the cup and took a genteel sip. "Why, Regina," said Arthur Pendragon, setting it back on the saucer. "You should have told me you were expecting company. How delightful."

Emma and Killian both continued to gape. It wasn't any more common to randomly stumble across the head of the vampire world here than it was to drop by your friend's place and find that the President had stopped in for lunch. This certainly explained the fancy car and the heavy security presence, if the Potentate had, for the first time in several decades at least, bestirred himself to leave London. Arthur himself had gotten to his feet, as if they were the honored guests here and not him, and hastened to shake their hands and assure them they weren't interrupting, all with that winsome expression and friendly air. "I've heard about the Harvard attacks," he explained, "and I came to assure Queen Regina that the full powers of the government are hers however she needed them, and if I could be of any personal support in this crisis, I was happy to do so. We haven't had a rogue Old One for – oh, I can't remember, it must be since Gold, hasn't it? I am surely treating this matter with the care and concern it deserves, and wanted to be here to set an example of leadership in these troubled times."

Emma noticed that Killian had tensed mightily at the mention of Gold, and even though she was burning with curiosity about the exact circumstances of his death, she also knew that now was not the right time to press for details. It was impossible to speak frankly with Regina with Arthur and three more members of his security team in the room, so finally Emma said, "If I could. . . have a word with the queen, sir? In private?"

Arthur waved a magnanimous hand. "Of course, of course. Whatever you need. I'm sure Mr. Jones and I have plenty to talk about."

Emma wasn't entirely sure she liked the sound of that, but circumstances were pressing, so she caught Regina's eye, tilted her head, and followed her out of the parlor, into the office at the end of the hall. Once she had shut the French doors and made sure that none of Arthur's flunkeys were lurking under the divan, she explained what was going on as economically as possible, trying to downplay the fact that she might have accidentally murdered Regina's brother earlier if things had broken in a different fashion. "So," she finished. "I don't know who's passing information to Zelena on you, but I'm fairly sure it's someone. Also, who's the vampire queen of New York? We need intel on these possible werewolf attacks."

"Her name is Cruella." Regina's lip curled slightly around the name. "And trust me, she is a piece of _work._ She married a rich stockbroker, helped him run a Ponzi scheme for twenty years, then when the feds caught on and sent her husband to jail, took her furs and jewels and Hamptons mansion, made their lives hell until some whistleblower turned her into the witan. As you can imagine, that did nothing to improve her delightful temperament. Now she lives in some penthouse on the Upper East Side and just snacks on _Vogue_ interns. I hear she and Anna Wintour are total BFFs."

"So. . . _The Devil Wears Prada_ is not actually just a metaphor and/or a romantic comedy, huh?" Emma felt her stomach sinking. "How did she get to keep her job?"

"Formally deposing a vampire queen is a difficult process, you don't make many friends doing it, and Cruella has at least decided to lie low for the time being, so she hasn't done anything egregiously illegal. Yet." Regina's tone said that she did not at all expect this streak to continue. "She knows that both the human and the supernatural authorities would love to have a chance to arrest her, so I imagine she's ostentatiously minding her manners right now just to annoy them. It's not out of the question that she's doing nothing about the werewolf attacks since she'd love the egg to be on someone else's face, and to prove that they have a lot to lose if she doesn't cooperate in investigating them. Trust me, Emma, she's too much for you to deal with."

"All right, so what do you suggest we do? Just let them continue?"

"New York isn't my jurisdiction. I'm not getting involved with their problems. Why should we even care about it?" Regina's voice had turned short with impatience. "In case you somehow forgot in the last five minutes, we have plenty to manage here in Boston. If some tourists are getting snacked on in the Big Apple, or whatever's going on, still not my lookout. If you can demonstrate that they're connected somehow, or that we need to worry about them in addition to my crazy sister terrorizing Ivy League co-eds, then maybe we can think about it. In the meantime, my advice is to just forget about it. Focus on what's in front of us."

"Yes, but – "

" _Yes, but_ nothing. I've given an order, I expect it to be followed. Arthur has promised me that if this crisis is solved with my efforts, he'll look into getting me a seat on the witan, and you are _not_ messing that up."

 _Oh?_ For some reason, this made Emma's antennae prick up. "In other words, the one thing you've wanted for the longest time and never thought you were in reach of actually getting any time soon?"

"Yes," Regina said, even more shortly. "So you can see why I'm not that interested in following up your little furry distraction. All I care about is neutralizing Zelena and the threat she poses to all of us. _Including_ you and Henry, as well as his students. We can agree on that, at least. I expect you to act accordingly." She turned to go. "I'd better not keep the Potentate waiting."

"Wait. Regina."

" _Yes?"_

"Arthur said there hasn't been a rogue Old One since Gold. Look, I know this is a painful subject, I can imagine you don't want to talk about it, but – how did he die?"

Regina's knuckles went white on the handle of the French doors, nearly jerking it out. "Is this really the time to be digging up more old skeletons, Miss Swan?"

"Like I said, I'm sorry. But if you really want me to work on solving this mystery with you, I need to know what I might be dealing with."

Regina hesitated for a long moment, then turned around and sat back down, straightening her skirt over her knees in a brief, nervous gesture. "He was killed," she said. "In 1916."

"And?"

"Do you want me to write an obituary? It was a scandal. At the time of his death, he was – " Regina counted back briefly in her head – "four hundred and sixty-seven years old. He was made into a vampire in 1500, much older than the usual fledgling – he was fifty-one when he was turned. He had been such an influential advisor and behind-the-scenes political manipulator during the Wars of the Roses that I imagine he decided he had to find a way to live forever, that he wouldn't ever give up the control and influence he had over the new Tudor line of kings." She tipped a shoulder in a half shrug. "So, at the turn of the sixteenth century, he managed it."

"Oh." Emma felt somewhat faint at the idea of such an origin, how long Gold must have endured, the power and ruthlessness he would have accumulated over such a career, the things he must have seen and the choices he must have made, to preserve that power at any and terrible cost. "Did Killian kill him?"

"Yes." Regina clearly did not care for the subject. "He had no business taking on Gold alone, but that's him for you. They fought for almost a week. Damaged half of London while they were at it, though that got attributed to the Irish rebels during the Easter Rising. And when immortals battle like that, humans always die, no matter how many pretty laws we make or how many nice things we say about protecting our weaker cousins. I think the witan later put the number of casualties at forty-two. Killian finally staked Gold and left him on the eastern belfry of St. Paul's Cathedral, to make the end as slow and agonizing as possible. It took him four more days to die."

Emma winced. "And after that was when Killian shut himself up in Russell Square for the next hundred years and spent it blackout drunk, as far as I can tell?"

"More or less." Regina's lips were tight. "Gold had turned into an active liability to the vampire world and was a danger to everyone whose path he crossed, so Killian wasn't punished for it beyond a slap on the wrist. It was no mean feat to take down a vampire that old and that powerful, but he _was_ Killian's blood father, and patricide is as much a crime for us as it is for humans. Gold's mistake was turning him in the first place, though. He wanted to leave him alive forever to suffer, and that ended up being his downfall, as anyone with a drop of actual sense could have predicted."

"Why?"

"Haven't I told you enough sordid family history for now? Ask him."

"Regina, come on. Just this, I promise, and then we're done."

"He fell in love with one of Gold's drones," Regina said reluctantly. "His favorite concubine. Neither his brother nor Gold, obviously, approved of the affair. Things got messy. Killian and the drone – what was her name? Mina? Mila? – ran away together. Gold found them, killed her in front of Killian's eyes, turned him into a vampire, and then once he awoke from the change, brought in his brother, tied him up, and had Killian watch as an entire pack of werewolves attacked him. His brother didn't survive. You can imagine that this had a particular. . . effect on Killian's desire for revenge over the following centuries."

"Jesus." Emma was almost wishing she'd taken Regina's advice and left well enough alone. She wanted to ask about Killian's brother, but she knew she'd kicked enough hornet's nests for now, and since he was long dead as well, the only effect would be more pain. "If Gold had done that to me, I would have driven that stake through his heart too."

"It was unfortunate," Regina said. "We can agree on that much. Now, if you've satisfied your taste for ghoulish backstory, I still have the vampire potentate sitting in my parlor and I'd prefer to get back to him. Good evening, Miss Swan."

With that, she pulled the door open, still somewhat harder than necessary, and stepped outside, striding down the hall. Emma remained where she was, resting her forehead on the cool glass, wanting to take a moment to compose herself before she had to go back and face Killian, having learned this particular dimension of his past. She hadn't known that he too had been turned against his will due to a love affair gone wrong, and it sounded as if the circumstances of his change had been even more horrific than hers. Though if Gold had been the last rogue Old One, it had taken him almost a week to be defeated in a battle that had cost almost fifty civilian lives, and then a further four days after that to die. . . it was a grim and unmistakable warning that whatever battle was coming, whatever it would take to defeat their current menace might well be far worse. She had known this wasn't going to be a walk in the park, but hearing it like that put it into a kind of stark and unassailable perspective, something to lurk uneasily at the back of her head as she did. . . whatever she did now. It put a certain unpleasant cold watery sensation in the pit of her stomach, but that was collateral. They couldn't let this happen again.

After a moment, she unlocked the door and strode back down the hall as confidently as she could. Killian had a look on his face a bit like a rat in a trap, and glanced up in evident relief to see her, as apparently his conversation with the Potentate had gone as awkwardly as one would imagine. "Swan!" he said, hastening to his feet. "Brilliant, let's be going then, yes?"

"Yeah." Emma nodded quickly to Arthur, then to Regina, and ushered them out past the ranks of security goons; it was well on in the night, and the streets were mostly deserted. As they walked, Emma filled him in on what she had learned about Cruella and the situation in New York, Regina's disinterest in doing anything that would prejudice Arthur's glittering promise of a witan seat, and her own faint intuition that something was not entirely fresh in the state of Denmark. "Has Arthur ever come to a local trouble spot like this? It seems. . . odd."

"No," Killian said, "but then again, this isn't just any trouble spot. He does have good reason to be worried about the emergence of a potential rogue, as he and Gold had volumes of their own power struggles." He glanced away, brows drawn tight. "Never mind all that, though."

"Of course," Emma agreed, as neutrally as possible. "Water under the bridge. And it's true we need to focus on Zelena. But she's obviously compromised my apartment, I don't want to paint a target on Henry's back by staying with him, and we don't know who's spying on Regina yet. We need to find somewhere else to base out of."

He raised an eyebrow. "You had ideas, love?"

"Not really. But since we agreed that the me getting kidnapped thing was a bit of a low point, we can probably come up with something."

That summoned the ghost of a smile to his lips, the first real one she had seen from him since this entire fiasco had started. "Where did you stay today?"

"With my werewolf friend. In Dorchester. But considering I kind of left in a hurry thinking I was going to have to kill you, I'm not sure what she would think if I then turned up on her doorstep with you in tow."

At that he actually laughed, and the sight and sound of it was so unexpected that it made something almost warm kindle in her chest, the ghost of lifetimes past; if not quite a jolly giant appearing to Scrooge in the dead of night, it still affected her somehow, pushed her off balance. "You certainly have a winning way with people, don't you?"

"No more than you," Emma protested. They were walking close together – in fact closer than they really needed to, she now realized, and hastened to reestablish the proper distance. She couldn't help it, and told herself she was relieved that he hadn't actually betrayed her, that there was still a chance for something to come of this and they weren't entirely dead in the water. She tried to think if bringing up the subject of Will would be a natural segue since they had already mentioned werewolves, but she did not want to be caught displaying undue curiosity. "I mean, we've both been a bit, well, quick to – "

Just then, her phone rang, making her jump. She pulled it out, saw it was Henry, and swiped it open. "Yeah? Did you find something?"

No answer on the other end. Just a distant yelp, thump, and then silence. The call hummed on empty air.

"Henry?" Emma's fingers tightened on the phone, nearly enough to shatter it, as Killian sensed her distress and automatically reached for her. "Henry? Henry!"

Still no answer. The line buzzed one more time, then cut off.

" _Henry!"_ Oh God. They never should have let him go home alone, never. Couldn't believe she'd trusted Zelena an inch, first believing that Killian had betrayed her, and second that she'd keep her word not to harm Henry. With a panicked glance behind her to ensure that Killian was following, because the last thing she wanted now was to walk into this alone, she lowered her head and began to run.


	8. Chapter 8

The house was dark and silent when Emma and Killian pelted up the street, burned to a halt on the sidewalk so fast that they almost left skidmarks in the cement, and stared at the front door, which had been left open, hanging half off its hinges. Ordinarily this would have been a blessing in disguise, as it meant they didn't need an invitation to get inside and investigate, but it also confirmed beyond a doubt that something very bad had happened, and Emma heard herself make a small involuntary noise, almost a whimper, as the magnitude of her mistake sank into her bones like cold lead. She knew Zelena was as trustworthy as your average Wall Street hedge fund manager, she _knew_ it, and yet she had still somehow thought that this would extend to keeping her word where Henry was concerned. That, or deluded herself into believing that if she did this one thing, if she fed on Aurora and just did what Zelena told her to get out of a bad situation, she would be exempted from further consequences. It had been stupid and naïve and it might cost her son, but why would Zelena do this now? Why would she risk losing her leverage with an impulsive kidnapping or whatever the hell had gone on here, or had she just gotten tired of Henry threatening to spill the beans to well-connected people and decided to pounce? Cool and considered strategy wasn't exactly her modus operandi, after all. If the Joker had ever met Zelena, he might decide to hang up his mask and go out of business.

No time for that. Emma flashed up the front walk and into the dark house, Killian hot on her heels. "Henry?" She wasn't expecting an answer, was fearing that someone would, but she had to cover her bases. "Henry!"

No answer. Nobody home. They stepped into the kitchen, to find the table overturned and a scatter of papers everywhere, making ruin of Henry's careful final alterations for the manuscript of his book. A lump rose in her throat, and moved by some atavistic maternal instinct – even though she hadn't helped Henry with his homework since he was about nine – she knelt down and tried to put them back into order, so he wouldn't have to waste more time redoing it when they found him. To go from thinking he was in mortal danger with Killian, to find out that he wasn't and they had been working together, to relaxing, to realizing that he now might _actually_ be in mortal danger. . . she felt whiplashed, assaulted, as if she had been walking on quicksand and was now sinking in over her head. She couldn't be sure she had the papers right, but shuffled them back together as Killian was hauling the table upright. Both of them breathed deep, sniffing for the scent of the attackers, but nothing immediately recognizable leapt out at them.

"Were they lying in wait?" Emma spoke as coolly as she could, trying to give the impression of command and competence. "Just watching for him to get home? Or did they show up later?"

"Can't be certain." Killian examined the slashes in the lintel, deep and splintered, with a frown knitting his dark brows. "This doesn't look like something a vampire would do, though."

"But why would a _werewolf –_ " Emma bit back the question as she decided that if she got started asking why anything made sense, they would be here all night and get nowhere. She sniffed again, but didn't detect the usual unmistakable reek of wolf, even as her mind flashed madly to the unexplained attacks in New York and tried to calculate if one of those could have gotten up here for – whatever reason any of this insanity was happening. "Hold on, I'm calling Regina."

Killian started to say something, but she held up a hand, pulling her phone out and stepping into the living room, pacing until Regina picked up, and then brusquely filling her in on the current situation and requesting immediate backup. If Zelena was going so flagrantly far as to add the kidnap (only kidnap, Emma couldn't think of anything else happening, couldn't do it) of Henry to her ever-growing list of assaults against Harvard students, the entire supernatural community of Boston and the whole Northeast had no more pressing business than taking her down and rescuing him. Emma didn't care how many important guests Regina was entertaining. This was quite possibly life or death.

She and Killian had finished conducting a thorough search of the house and the small backyard, the detached garage with Henry's car still in it, when headlights glowed at the end of the street and the Rolls-Royce Phantom they had seen earlier rolled up as smoothly and silently as its namesake. The back door unlatched and swung open on its reverse mounting, and the Potentate of the vampire world himself, still in suit and tie, stepped out. "I hear there is a crisis," Arthur Pendragon called. "May I be of any assistance?"

Emma started into an impatient reply, remembered who she was talking to, and inclined her head slightly. "My son has disappeared. It looks like someone kidnapped him and we – we can't find any traces."

"Let me help." Arthur had a strange way of moving, something that Emma hadn't seen from any vampire before; a kind of glide at once seamlessly smooth and oddly disjointed. As long as you kept your eyes on him, he flowed as effortlessly as a river, but look away for an instant and he'd be somewhere else entirely, apparently in complete disregard of the usual laws of space and physics. She wondered exactly how old he was, and if perhaps Gold had been this same way, with this same snakelike speed and slyness. This gnawed at her head for a moment, but by then Arthur was already up the steps, taking advantage of the open door the same way they had in order to enter the house, and they hurried to follow.

Inside, he surveyed the lintel slashes with a dark expression that turned darker upon catching a whiff of something in the living room. His nostrils flared, he knelt down and scuffed something out of the carpet, and put it on his tongue, tasting. Then he spat, stood up, dusted off his hands, and announced, "I think I may just recognize it. Come with me."

Emma and Killian hesitated, glanced at each other, and then had to move it to keep up, as in the few seconds they had balked, Arthur had gone from standing in the living room next to them to outside on the lawn. Even as a fellow immortal used to covering distances far faster than usual, Emma found it disconcerting, almost dizzying, and wondered if it could be chalked up to Arthur staying isolated in his London mansion so long, precisely because his interference never tended to go well, that he had forgotten the niceties of interacting with other supernaturals. But Henry came first, not nitpicking quibbles about etiquette, and she and Killian ducked into the back seat of the Phantom, as Arthur pulled the door shut and leaned forward to say something to his driver in a low voice. A moment later, they rolled away from the curb, quickly picking up speed.

Whatever scent trail Arthur was following, he seemed quite sure of it, only pausing briefly at intersections to survey the options and make a decision. Emma sat tensely on the sleek patent leather, fists balled on her knees, ready to explode into action the instant it should be called for, as they rolled out of Henry's quiet Cambridge neighborhood, past MIT, across the river, and then south, making unmistakably for Dorchester. _Werewolves?_ Had it actually been? Wouldn't Ruby know something about this? She wasn't the kind of person to lie or withhold information – unless it hadn't been her pack at all, but possibly the same ones wreaking havoc in New York, expanding operations up I-93 for whatever purpose they could possibly be about –

Sensing her confusion and distress, Killian shot a quick sidelong glance at her, but Emma shook her head, lips tight; she wasn't sure how up Arthur was on either the current supernatural dynamics of Boston or indeed their own acquaintance, and wasn't sure now was the time to find out. For all she knew, Arthur might have been tipped off about Killian's suspect status in the Old Ones registry, and consider him a potential criminal on the verge of doing something equally terrible. Seeing as that had been her view of the matter until about three hours ago, it wouldn't be a stretch. She just had to hope that the vampire world's well-known dedication to keeping Arthur in the dark about any actual politics would save their asses on this one.

A few minutes later, they turned down a back alley that dead-ended in a gravel pullout in front of a boarded-up building, which looked like something the Winter Hill Gang would have used as a base of operations (and probably had at some point). Abruptly Emma wondered if that family Neal had mentioned having in the area, but which she had never actually met, were members of the Irish Mob; he had certainly been confident that they wouldn't be caught up in the ongoing gangland wars of the eighties. Now those conflicts were largely over, but living on the boundaries of the uneasy peace accord between Teeth and Tails gave her a certain perspective on the whole thing. Such as the fact that if it _was_ the werewolves who had carried out the hit on Henry, perhaps mistakenly blaming him for the vampire attacks on Harvard, it had the potential to touch off a conflagration of the kind that Whitey Bulger could only wish he had started.

Arthur held up a hand, the driver switched the headlights off, and the doors unlatched. The three vampires crawled out of the back seat, regarding the building suspiciously. Emma's first instinct was to run in there and damn any and all obstacles in her way, and it was only with difficulty that she held herself back from shouting. Her eyes flicked over the boarded windows, trying to tell if there was any hint of light or movement, if they might have Henry tied up in a chair behind one of them, or if this was some kind of a trap to get them to reveal themselves. Why on earth was Arthur here? If they accidentally killed _him,_ the hell to pay might well outstrip the apocalypse.

She opened her mouth again, wondered if now was the best time to start filing personnel complaints, and tensed all over as they heard a muffled crash from within. At that, Arthur went into his particular vampire lightspeed, vanishing inside in the blink of an eye, and after one more frozen moment, she and Killian rocketed after him.

The interior of the building was pitch-black and labyrinthine. Even Emma was completely discombobulated upon entry, supernatural senses or no supernatural senses, and she heard distant yells and thumps from overhead. She flailed out, hit something solid, sprang around preparing to attack before she realized it was Killian, and made a silent "sorry" gesture as they ran toward the stairs. She could hear small animals skittering underneath the splintered boards, briefly thought there was something odd about that but couldn't place why, and vaulted onto the gloomy landing beyond, looking madly around. Nothing moved in the murk, but she could still hear yelling.

Emma oriented herself in that general direction, thinking it most likely to yield results; she thought she could hear Henry's voice among the clamor. It took everything she had again not to call out for him, though his name burned in her chest, as they wove a demented obstacle course between gaps and sags in the floor; this entire thing was a fire trap, probably condemned years ago but still not gotten around to actually being knocked down. It reminded her unsettlingly of some abandoned lunatic asylum, the kind of place dumb teenagers broke into on a dare and left because they were spooked, or where they filmed episodes of ghost-hunting TV shows and got abnormal spikes on their equipment. She had stopped being afraid of the dark long ago, especially when she herself became one of the things that went bump in the night, but this place felt different. Stranger. Savage.

She and Killian had almost reached the door at the far end when it burst open and Arthur flashed out, still moving at considerable speed but slower than usual due to the fact that he had Henry's arm around his shoulders. Henry himself had blood running down his face from a cut above his eye but otherwise seemed to be moving under his own power, and Emma felt a wash of relief so incalculable that her knees almost gave out. He caught sight of her, seemed equally boggled, and might have been about to say something – except for the small interruption that took place at that moment, which was the door that he and Arthur had just come through bursting into flames. It painted the decrepit timbers in unearthly, violent glow, as if the mouth of hell had opened and belched forth brimstone, and the scent of smoke burned up the back of her nose. She was just about to ask, in some dumb reflexive way, if there were still people in there when Killian grabbed her by the arm and half-dragged, half-carried her away, back down the steps after Arthur and Henry and out into the cold slap of the open air beyond.

For a moment Emma staggered, blinded by glow, and she had a brief and ludicrous thought that a UFO was now landing to put a cap on the lunacy of the night, but she then realized it was headlights closing in from all sides, cars pulling up and vampires piling out – apparently the reinforcements Regina had requested had tracked them down here, and not a minute too soon. Indeed they seemed about to charge, before realizing that Arthur, Killian, and Emma were members of their own kind, Henry was with them, and anyone who was neither of the two was trapped in the burning building and unable to register any sort of objection. They waved them away, shouting; vampires' distaste of fire was well known, and the building looked set to go at any second. Emma had a brief flashback to Battersea, of igniting the tangled electrical wires and hearing the screams, and closed her eyes, swallowing hard, until the image faded.

Herding vampires could be even worse than herding cats at most occasions, but for once things went smoothly. Arthur graciously downplayed any compliments for his heroic actions, insisting that he was only happy he had been able to help and be in the right place at the right time, and even Emma, once she had clutched Henry's hands and assured herself that he was coughing soot but nothing worse, approached him to offer thanks. Once more, Arthur waved it off. "Of course, Miss Swan, of course. I _did_ say I was here to help set an example of leadership, I could not do any less. Would you, your son, and Mr. Jones consent to accompany me back to my lodging? There's plenty of room, and I imagine you are in need of a place to stay until the issue with your apartment is sorted out."

Emma was briefly startled, as she didn't recall mentioning that to him, but doubtless he had heard it all and then some from Regina, busily filling him in to ensure that she was cooperating and should receive her witan seat as promised. She definitely didn't want to let Henry out of her sight or send him back to his scratched-up house until they could be certain that the perpetrators were either dead in the fire or otherwise neutralized, and it seemed rude not to include Killian when the invitation had been extended to him as well. The three of them slid onto the back bench of the Phantom, Arthur went up front to the passenger seat, and as the rest of the vampires were establishing a boundary around the burning building, preparing to smooth things over with the fire department when they arrived, and otherwise running interference, the door shut and the Rolls-Royce glided away with the same unsettling silent grace as its master.

Conversation was minimal on the drive back into downtown Boston. Quizzing Henry about his ordeal could wait until they were settled and safe, and while he looked understandably rattled, he didn't appear to be overly traumatized. Emma squeezed his hand, comforting herself with his definite aliveness, and when he began anxiously asking if his book draft had been damaged, she knew he was fine. "No," she assured him. "I did my best to put it back together for you."

"Thanks." Henry ran a hand through his beard, taking off his grubby glasses and polishing them on his shirt to a state of – well, if not optimum visual clarity, at least general functionality. "I'm not sure OUP accepts 'was briefly kidnapped by monsters and had to be rescued by a vampire bigshot' as a valid reason for granting a deadline extension."

"Monsters?" Killian frowned. "What sort of monsters are we talking, lad?"

"Not entirely sure, but. . ." Henry hesitated, clearly aware of the potential impact of his words. "They did look an awful lot like werewolves. Big, beefy, hairy, you know the type. There were maybe five of them? I didn't get a good look, they attacked while I was in the bathroom. I managed to get to my phone and call Emma, but they knocked it out before I could actually say anything. They dragged me out, blindfolded me, dumped me in the car, and headed here. I was going to tell them that if they were trying to hold me for ransom, they _really_ messed up; I'm an assistant professor, I probably make less yearly than the guy serving me lattes at Starbucks. But they didn't seem interested in money. Or anything, really. They just kind of tied me to a chair and. . ." He paused. "You know, did the intimidating-thug routine. I still don't know why. They didn't say anything about the attacks, or why they'd targeted me. I almost wondered if they were trying to kidnap some hypothetical other Henry Nolan who makes a hundred grand or something, but that was when he showed up." He nodded at Arthur. "I didn't get your name?"

"Pendragon," the vampire potentate said generously. "Arthur Pendragon."

"Arthur – " Henry blinked, and Emma could hear the sound of every nerd circuit in the brain of a man who had written a college senior thesis entitled "Courtly Love, Courtly War: Literary Chivalry in the Anglo-Norman Arthurian Romances, 1100-1300" overloading on the spot. "Wait – as in _the_ Arthur Pendragon? Once and future king Arthur Pendragon?"

"Exactly," Arthur said, smiling broadly, clearly delighted to have discovered a devoted fan. "I am led to collect you are a teacher of some sort?"

"Assistant professor in the English department, at Harvard." Henry looked as if the entire unsettling ordeal had been worth it and then some for the chance to shake hands with his idol in the flesh, which he now did with great vigor. "Holy shit, this is amazing. _King Arthur_ saved my ass? Is it weird if I ask for your autograph when we get back to you – wherever you're staying?"

"I wouldn't mind at all," Arthur assured him. "Whatever we can do to make this easier for you."

Emma opened her mouth, then bit her tongue. Now was assuredly not the time to tell Henry that the rest of the vampire world had quite a different opinion of Arthur than he did, or otherwise squash his hero-worship in an unsportsmanlike fashion. Arthur _had_ saved Henry's life, after all, and meeting him was bound to be impressive for your average mortal, far less one who had studied myths and folklore as much as Henry had. As well, since half the vampires in Boston had personally witnessed Arthur emerging from the burning building with Henry in tow, that might help revise their opinions of him too. Emma herself had seen enough of him in action to be quite certain that he was nothing to be trifled with.

It was late enough that traffic was light, and they pulled up at their destination shortly thereafter, whereupon Emma felt her jaw actually drop. She had not expected the vampire potentate to be shacked up in a Motel 6, but even she was taken back to see that it was the Boston Harbor Hotel, a (naturally) five-star establishment that was supposed to be even nicer than the Ritz-Carlton. Her astonishment only intensified as a white-gloved concierge got the car door, said that he hoped Mr. Pendragon had had a wonderful evening on the town, and said he would call up to the butler to be sure everything was ready, and were there any extra personal touches he would like to request? At this Arthur looked at Henry, who first looked flabbergasted and then said he could really do with a club sandwich. By the speed at which the concierge zipped off to fulfill this request, one would think that Henry had asked for, say, the Holy Grail itself.

Arthur benevolently conducted his guests inside to the elevator, pressed "P" on the glowing menu, and they rode up sixteen floors to the potentate's apparent home-away-from-home: the Presidential Suite. Again, naturally. It was the prime example of "if you have to ask how much, you can't afford it," though Emma supposed that since Arthur _was_ the supernatural head of state and thus comparable to any other visiting foreign dignitary, this was about the level of swag he rolled with. She, Henry, and Killian stood awkwardly on the foyer rug, until Killian recovered himself first. He bent down, considerately removed his dirty boots, and strode in stocking feet to the blue plush sofa. Then he sat, with a groan.

Emma and Henry looked at each other, decided to make the most of it, and followed suit. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door as room service arrived with Henry's sandwich (presented on bone china and silver tureen with linen-wrapped sterling cutlery; she was surprised they hadn't gilt-leafed the damn thing) and she felt her stomach twist with a pang of desire, of wishing she could eat anything their Michelin-starred chefs could cook. Henry moved to the table to eat it, clearly not wanting to flaunt it in front of their faces, and Emma tried not to look like a hungry child waiting to be served in the school lunch line. Aurora, she reminded herself. She would be fine from that, and she still had to pay for it.

Arthur, however, had seen her face – and, for that matter, Killian's. He consulted the butler, who was definitely a man who had been asked to fly in prime cuts of beef (in their own first class seat) from one particular artisan butcher in Paris because a guest had a craving at three AM, and as Henry was finishing his sandwich, the concierge reappeared with a tray of drinks. There was a Kahlua with cream for Henry, and a tall crystal decanter three-quarters filled with a deep red liquid, along with two heavy-bottomed tumblers. Arthur thanked him, handed him a wad of bills, and saw him out, then turned to Emma and Killian. "Nightcap?"

Emma hesitated, reminding herself that she could do without it, but it had been the absolute hell of a past twenty-four hours, she would need her wits about her, and maybe punishing herself could wait until the crisis was past and she had the luxury of repentance. "Why not?"

Arthur beamed, poured them each a healthy glass, and handed them over. "Well," he said. "I am afraid that all this excitement and action has been rather much for an old man to deal with after so many years in London, and while I know it's not yet dawn, I shall bid you all good night. There are two spare bedrooms, the keys are here." He set them on the gleaming tabletop. "You're welcome to stay. I'll be remaining in Boston until the crisis has passed, and don't feel shy about asking for whatever you need or want. They take good care of you."

"Thank you," Emma said awkwardly. She wasn't used to so much largesse and extravagance; this parlor was probably the size of her entire apartment. "You've been. . . very kind."

"Please. Don't mention it." Arthur waved at the glasses. "Drink up. You need your strength."

With that, he crossed the deep plush rug to the bedroom at the far side, withdrew, and shut the door, leaving Emma with the brief and panicked arithmetic problem of how the three of them – herself, Killian, and Henry – were going to divide into the remaining two. Putting the competing circadian rhythms of mortal and immortal together would be awkward; humans didn't sleep well next to vampires for the same reason they wouldn't sleep well next to a king cobra. Henry was probably not keen on paging Dr. Freud and sharing a bed with his mother anyway, and he still barely knew Killian. The only clear and sensible solution was to give Henry one of the rooms and share the other with Killian herself, and even as she knew it was just a matter of logic and necessity, her heart performed an odd little shiver. Not that she was making too much of it. The concierge would probably rush out to the nearest IKEA and buy an entire new bed if she asked. It could be managed. Temporary arrangement.

The boys, however, did not appear to be distracted by her same concerns. Henry's phone, which had apparently been rescued with him, buzzed on the tabletop, and he looked at it, said, "Shit, I better call Mom," and swiped the text message open. Apparently the case of a Harvard professor being briefly abducted from his home in threatening circumstances had hit the news.

Emma's heart performed that brief clench it always did when Henry referred to his adoptive parents, even though she liked David and Mary Margaret very much, had been on a few cautious visits to them and their lovely historic home in Lexington, where they had raised Henry and his brother, their biological son. Jimmy Nolan was likewise doing something respectable and prestigious with his life; the last Emma had heard, he had just graduated from the police academy and joined the BPD as a sergeant. It occurred to her that if he was on the force, he may well have been the first to hear about Henry's misadventures on the night, and Henry would indeed have to call and reassure the family of his not-dead status. Emma liked them, she really did. They had done a wonderful job with Henry and Jimmy both, were loving parents and devoted spouses and conscientious citizens, almost storybook-perfect in every way. Maybe that was why sometimes she felt so guilty, so weighted with her own failures, the reason they had to adopt Henry in the first place, that she almost couldn't look them in the eye.

Henry stepped into the other room to make his call, and feeling a sudden need of it, Emma gulped down half of her glass of blood in one go. It tasted unusually delicious, smooth and warm like good whiskey, and her eyes widened in surprise as she took another sip. "What is this?"

Killian took a drink of his own. "Blood of an Old One," he said. "That's. . . strange."

"What? Not _Arthur's?"_ That at least answered why it tasted so good; she remembered her midnight snack on Killian after the escapade at the London Eye, although she hadn't known if all Old Ones were so scrumptiously flavored or it was just the adrenaline of the near escape. But surely there was no way the vampire potentate would quite literally serve himself up to them.

"No idea." That faint frown returned to its customary place between Killian's brows. "Then again, he probably travels with bottles of the stuff. You wouldn't drink a glass of Two-Buck Chuck if you'd been accustomed to having an extensive wine cellar at your beck and call, so why should Arthur sacrifice any quality in his mealtimes just because he's gone abroad? I can't see that one deigning to open a carton of ONeg. Or even asking the butler to do it on his behalf."

Emma snorted. "No. Can't say that I do either." She took another sip, feeling steadier already, and before she knew it, the glass was empty. She reached for the decanter, intending to pour more, but Killian was ahead of her, taking a long, meditative pull on his second one. However badly she was feeling, he must feel worse, after two days awake and the booster shot to boot. She shot a look at the closed bedroom door, but could still hear Henry on the phone behind it, and decided they might have a little time. "Did you send that email to Will? About. . . checking to see who might be meddling with the registry?"

Killian looked at her in surprise and wry amusement. "We discussed that earlier tonight, love. At Carpe Diem. After which, you may recall, we became somewhat distracted. When exactly would I have had the time?"

"Sorry." Emma felt that flush in her cheeks again, that impossible heat he kept bringing out of her. "I was just. . . wondering."

Killian regarded her for a long moment, then took another drink. "Wondering whether Will and I were, for lack of a better word, _an item?"_

"What? No, of course not. About how we were going to solve the mystery."

One of those dark eyebrows did its quirking thing again, but he didn't immediately answer. She remembered how she had teased him about Will at Heathrow, that they were modern vampires who had werewolf friends and lovers, and abruptly remembered that horrific story Regina had told her, about how Killian, as a newly made vampire, had been forced to watch his brother torn apart by werewolves. If she knew Gold at all, and despite the fact that he had died almost fifty years before she was born she was starting to think she might, that would have been to impress upon him the fact that even as a vampire with superhuman speed and strength and power, even as the most dangerous predator and hunter there was, he could not protect his loved ones, was helpless to do anything but watch as they were casually destroyed. What must that have done to a vampire in the year 1734, when the immortal wars were at their height and nobody would have stopped Killian from killing as many werewolves as he could get his hands on? How much old instinct and hatred must he have had to overcome to like or trust Will even a little, no matter what their relationship actually had been? And she'd made fun of him for it. Not that she knew, of course she couldn't know, and hence hadn't done it on purpose, but. . .

Killian himself had been watching her face, with that uncanny knack he had for reading her thoughts like an open book. "Ask what's on your mind, lass," he advised. "I can tell it'll burn you straight up if you don't, and after these bloody last few days, that doesn't need the help."

"I guess I'm just curious about how a vampire who's spent the last hundred years mostly shut up in his house befriends a werewolf who likes fast cars and loud music." Emma shrugged, thinking that sounded sufficiently casual. "Odd couple?"

Killian matched her offhand tone. "I suppose you could say so. He'd also been through a bad breakup when we met, so we. . . commiserated. He'd get drunk, and then I'd feed off him, and thus we both stayed at a high level of self-pitying and dysfunctional inebriation." He paused, considered the decanter as if wondering as if this qualified, and then poured himself a third, the blood sloshing low against the fine crystal. "But whatever depravities we may have committed, and I'm sure they were quite depraved, he's seeing someone. Her name's Elsa. I think you'd like her, actually. Lovely woman. Too good for him by half. So if that's what you were trying to ask, with all your runabouts, then no, we aren't an 'item.'"

Emma tried not to look too relieved too quickly. It was just for future reference, if anything. Sometime when this mess was over and she had leisure to think about such things. In the event that she would, which she probably wouldn't. "Oh."

Killian eyed her for a long moment, there was an awkward silence in which she had the distinct impression he might be psyching himself up to make similar enquiries into the state of her love life, and was just trying to think if the weather would be too obvious a conversational dodge when Henry fortuitously made his reappearance, just assuring Mary Margaret, audibly still worried on the other end of the line, that everything was fine. This flagrant lie delivered, his nose remarkably did not grow a foot long, and he hung up and looked at Emma and Killian, who had expressions on their faces like preschoolers caught repeating curse words on the playground, in bemusement. "Sorry. Did I interrupt something?"

"Not at all," Killian said graciously, getting to his feet. "Well, I've likewise had the utter bastard of a few days, so I'm going to bed. Don't mind if I don't wake up for forty-eight hours or so."

With that, he took one of the keys from the table and entered the bedroom on the other side of the suite, leaving the key in the door with the obvious expectation that Emma would use it to get in later; word unspoken, they had apparently arrived at the same conclusion about the sleeping arrangements. She didn't know whether to be reassured or unsettled by this, and was still looking after him when Henry took Killian's vacated seat and said, "You like him, don't you."

"What?" She had thought she'd dodged that bullet when Killian retired for the night. "He. . . he's just been helpful, that's all. I'm sorry I leapt to conclusions about the two of you."

"It probably did look bad," Henry agreed diplomatically. Still, however, he wasn't about to let her off the hook. "How long has it been since you saw anybody? Twenty-two years? Have you had a relationship at all in the entire time you've been a vampire?"

"No," Emma said, her voice sounding somewhat more brittle than she intended. "Which could be due to the fact that the last guy I dated was actually an evil were-monkey who tried to kill me and handed me over to Zelena to be made into one in the first place."

"That does have to rank up there on relationship horror stories." Henry picked up his glass of Kahlua and took a sip. "But still, Mom. Like it or not, you're going to live – well, if probably not forever, a good few centuries at least. I'm not always going to be around. Eventually, you're going to have to find someone else you care about."

Emma flinched at the reminder, after how close she had potentially come to losing him tonight. "Henry, no, don't talk like that. That's the future, that's a long time away. I'll be fine. Regina and I butt heads a lot, sure, but she won't let me sleep out in the cold."

"Having someone who will take you in if they absolutely have to isn't the same as having a real partner," Henry said. "Not by a long shot. I know this is hard, I remember what things used to be like with you and Dad. I have a different perspective on it now as an adult than I did as a kid, but even then I knew it wasn't something that was normal and that should just be excused as the way everyone's parents were. And he's a good man. Killian. I'm not saying you should run into his arms in slow motion while 'Somebody to Love' plays in the background, but you should think twice about pushing him away just because it's old habit."

"I'm not pushing him away."

Henry gave her a _Mom, seriously?_ look.

"All right, all right." Emma raised her hands in surrender. "But we have to focus on everything that's going on right now. The attacks, whoever kidnapped you, Zelena, this other mess in New York. . . there's so much, it wouldn't be fair if I was distracted or couldn't give it my full attention. People are being hurt, Henry. People are in danger. I'm afraid it won't be too long until someone actually dies, and Lily Page already did, resurrection or otherwise. Of course I couldn't think about. . . whatever else there was to think about. Not now."

"Then when?" Henry asked. "What will your excuse be when the crisis is over? And there will be one, we both know that."

"Well in that case, what about you? You're not seeing anyone. Isn't there some cute fellow professor in the English department who, I don't know, reviews Keats really well?"

Henry chewed his cheek, clearly trying to decide whether to call her out for so blatantly changing the subject, or answer her question. After a moment he said, "She works on Coleridge, actually. Her book just came out. Cornell University Press. 'Transcending Nature, Touching Magic: Encounter with the Other in _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ and _Kubla Khan.'_ I was the second reader before she submitted it."

"Hah! I knew it! What's her name?"

"Violet," Henry said, the tip of his long nose turning ever so slightly pink. "Violet Percy. But we're not seeing each other formally or anything. We've just had a couple of coffee dates. There was an office pool as to which junior faculty member would get their book accepted first, and she beat me by three days, which cost me $25 and the first of said coffee dates." He shrugged, clearly doing his best to likewise play it cool. "I still maintain that if we went by the actual dates on the letters, I should have won. It's not my fault the mail takes longer to get from Oxford than it does from Ithaca."

"Sounds like it worked out either way," Emma said, grinning despite herself, as she finished off the dregs of her glass and poured what few fingers were left in the decanter after Killian's three servings. She belatedly worried that it would gross Henry out to be openly drinking blood in front of him; knowing that it happened and seeing it for yourself were two different things. But then, it didn't look any different from red wine, and he didn't look ostentatiously disgusted, so she took a cautious sip. She wasn't going to last much longer either, but she so rarely got a chance like this, to sit and talk with Henry and do things that a mother would do, to tease him about a crush, even if his insistence on raising the subject in regards to her was far more uncomfortable than she cared for. She should ask him more about the kidnapping, if he'd seen any particular identifying attribute on the wolves that had taken him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. He was safe. They had probably burned in the fire. Maybe Zelena hadn't done it after all, though she was still insane and Henry's protection would have to be diligently attended to. And surely nobody was going to get through Arthur's extensive and crackerjack security team to ambush them here. Maybe she could trust that they were, at least for tonight, kept safe.

She paused for a long moment, then finished off her drink and set it down, eyes feeling like sandbags. "I hate to crash out on you, but I don't think I can stay awake much longer. Time for bed."

"Same for me. I'm also actually accustomed to sleeping at night." Henry looked wry, then glanced at the closed door of the bedroom Killian had taken. "Sleep well, Mom."

Deciding to ignore the implications of that look, Emma made her way across the suite with as much dignity as possible, waited until Henry had vanished into the other bedroom, then quietly turned the key and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn, it was cool and dark, and she was briefly confused and alarmed by the fact that the bed was empty – had he jumped out the sixteenth-floor window? – until she saw the bundled shape on the floor. Killian Jones, upon finding himself put in the terrible, awful, no-good position of having to share a sumptuous king-sized bed in a five-star hotel with a beautiful woman and fellow vampire, had taken all the extra pillows and quilts out of the closet and settled down by the antique mahogany armoire.

Emma looked at him for a long moment, caught between guilt and a deep, heart-wrenching grief, although for whom she couldn't have said. Herself, him, that drone he had loved three centuries ago and had seen murdered before his eyes; his brother; even Neal. How similar they were in their origins, how they had lived in prisons of their own making for years and years, his longer than hers only by dint of the fact that he was much older; she didn't know that she'd have done any differently if she had his same tenure. Incarcerated by their own tragedy, their own fear, their own pain. Even, and especially, by the fact of being a vampire itself. It was a beautiful, seductive, enthralling cage, but it was still beyond any doubt and any forgetting, still a cage.

She paused a moment longer, then padded over to him, bent down, and shook him. "Killian," she whispered. "You don't have to sleep on the floor, that's ridiculous. Come on, go to bed."

She then had to shake him harder, as he didn't seem to be stirring. It was true that Old Ones who had been through a lot could drop into a kind of stasis, a coma, deeper than the ordinary daylight unconsciousness of a younger vampire, and he _had_ said not to be alarmed if he didn't wake up for a while. So she considered, then crouched down, got her arms under him, and scooped him up; with supernatural strength, it was no difficulty to convey him across the room to the bed. She used her foot to awkwardly pull the covers down on one side, deposit him in it, and tuck them back up, hands lingering a moment on his shoulders. That faint line between his brows had not smoothed out even in sleep, and he looked tired, sad, and old, as if all those years had made their weight known at once. She found herself wishing, absurdly and wistfully, that she could help.

But, then. She couldn't. What she had said to Henry was still true, and whatever moment of solace she had here would quickly be gone. She needed to make sure that she at least was ready to face it, and so she undressed quietly in the dimness, finding a silken dressing gown in the closet and wrapping it around herself for nightclothes. Then she slid carefully onto the other side of the bed, so (the dimensions of a king-size being what they were) there was a good two feet of space between her and Killian. She didn't want him to wake up and get the wrong impression.

(If she almost hoped, somewhere in a small and secret part of herself, that he _would_ do exactly that, she ignored it.)

Emma settled down with a weary sigh, feeling dawn not far off and wondering if likewise one day of rest would be enough for her. Considering the rapid-fire pace of how things and crises had flung themselves at her to date, it didn't seem likely, but she had to take what she could. This was enough, for now. This was enough.

She closed her eyes and passed out.


	9. Chapter 9

Emma woke with the lights of Rowes Wharf glittering on the wall through a crack in the curtains, the bedside clock reading 6:44 PM (the sun still set early in Boston at this time of year) and feeling, to her complete surprise, almost entirely refreshed. She had never been a person who could spring out of bed to gallivant gaily with the larks even when she was actually getting up in the morning, and the transition to evening had not made it much easier. But this was good. More than good, great. Cleared. Rested. Maybe it was the boost from Old One blood, or maybe the 350-thread-count percale cotton sheets, or some combination of the two, and as she sat up, considering the next stages of their plan, it occurred to her that the first one had to be questioning Arthur in more detail about last night. There had been several small things that seemed out of place to her, or at least unexpected, but she had overlooked or dismissed them all in the need to get Henry back safe and sound. Now that that was achieved, she wanted real answers. She also had a hunch about what else she should look into, but that could wait for phase two.

Plan of immediate action decided, Emma pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, and only then remembered its other occupant. Killian lay exactly where she'd left him last night, having not even moved an inch, hair still tousled on the pillow in the same dark, feathery sprays. When she leaned over and clapped her hands above his face, there was no reaction whatsoever; she could probably have paraded the entire Harvard Crimson marching band through here and seen nary a flicker. He had apparently entered into full-on stasis, which she couldn't blame him for needing, but her hazy recollection of Old One lore seemed to contain the fact that these episodes could last for days, weeks, or even months. What was she supposed to do – just leave him out of commission here, try to solve the mystery with only Henry and possibly Regina, if Regina wasn't too worried about jeopardizing her chances for a witan seat to do anything useful? No, that couldn't be right. She needed him.

Emma checked herself for the ease, and the fear, with which that thought had crossed her mind. Needed his help, she corrected. He was obviously an asset to the cause: incredibly smart, resourceful, a fierce fighter, an Old One himself, and not as bad as she'd taken him to be on first sight. Not that she doubted he had a dark and bloody past, but she didn't care about that just now. It had been a hundred years since he had killed, with good reason, a monster who had destroyed him and his loved ones, and he hadn't gone on a new rampage after that, used Gold's death as an excuse to take his place and become the most feared vampire overlord in the supernatural world. Instead, Killian Jones had run and hid, walled himself away from everyone, built himself an island and a cage and disappeared so thoroughly that even his own sister didn't know where he was or what he was doing, and figured he would be useless if it came to any actual fighting. Emma knew a bit too much about the desire to outrun the pain, to hope it would somehow be gone if you never looked over your shoulder, and to isolate, to bar all gates and close the drawbridge to the castle and retreat to the tower. Yes, she did know something about that.

She paused a moment longer, taken with an inexplicable urge to push that one lock of hair out of his eyes. Then she pulled her hand back, rolled to her feet, and went to investigate the palatial marble bathroom, which could probably host a few diplomatic summits of its own. She showered, made herself presentable, discovered that her clothes had been taken away, laundered, and returned, and dressed. Then with one more glance at Killian, who was still magnificently impersonating a plaster knight atop a sarcophagus, she went out into the living room.

Arthur was sitting on the blue plush couch in a dressing gown, wearing reading glasses (it had to be for the aesthetic, he as a vampire certainly didn't need them) and paging through the London _Times,_ a crystal tumbler of blood perched on the coffee table in front of him. He glanced up at her entrance and smiled broadly, furling the paper. "Ah, Miss Swan! Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thanks." Emma sat down across from him, trying to keep her eyes off that tumbler. She wouldn't need another real feed for another week or so, longer if she supplemented with ONeg as usual, and she had a feeling that Old One blood was a bad thing to get addicted to. "Sir, if you have a minute, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Of course." Arthur picked up the glass and took a sip. "Breakfast?"

"No, I'm fine." Emma clenched her fingers in her lap, fighting a strange momentary urge to lunge at him, knock it out of his grasp, and take what she wanted directly, pin him down and bite him hard. It was never something that had happened to her before, and it was strong enough to leave her briefly discombobulated, unnerved and confused. Was that a side effect of even the small amount she'd had of it last night? Old One blood did strange things to vampires who fed on it constantly – which, come to think of it, might explain Arthur. But whose was he offering them? She couldn't imagine that a fellow Old One would be content to serve as a mobile Bonfils center-cum-gourmet grocery store, even for the vampire potentate, and Arthur clearly had no fears of running out, so –

"If you're sure," Arthur said. "How is Mr. Jones this fine evening, by the way?"

"Asleep." Emma leaned back in her chair as the urge to tear Arthur's throat out eased up, but she remained wary. "I think he went into stasis."

"Wouldn't be surprising, poor fellow." Arthur shook his head sympathetically. "Now, what did you want to ask me, my dear?"

Emma found that rather grating, but then again, Arthur was many hundreds of years older than her, much more powerful, and could call her whatever he wanted. At least, if she was smart, she'd let him. "Last night when you rescued my son, you must have gotten a look at the kidnappers. Or surely a smell. If they were wolves, you'd know, of course. Well?"

"They were indeed werewolves," Arthur said. "Henry was correct. I believe they had the trap set up for the precise reason of immolating any vampires who came to rescue him, but it backfired, rather literally. Regina's coven reported to me that there's nothing left, the building was a total loss and there were no survivors. So we can be glad that threat has been neutralized, at least."

"Werewolves?" Considering what she had concluded initially last night from the gashes in Henry's kitchen doorway and his own report of the kidnappers as large and hairy men, Emma couldn't deny that it was definitely supposed to look as if this was the case. Yet something was still bothering her, and this finally allowed her to put her finger on it. "While we were climbing the stairs, I heard small animals running around – like the ones you'd find in an abandoned warehouse usually, yes, but not at a werewolf hideout. You know, given the fact that wolves are carnivores and eat them."

"Really?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I doubt the werewolves in question were so foolish as to use a location that could easily be traced back to them, especially if they were kidnapping a human and provoking the vampires. They're dead, of course, so we can't ask them, but – "

"Except for the fact that it doesn't matter if they'd used it before or not," Emma said. "Whenever werewolves move into a place, everything lower on the food chain clears out _instantly._ It's a natural response. Fight or flight. I know some werewolves who made a killing in the pest control business because all they had to do was show up, and five minutes later the entire place was rat-free. Mark it with their scent, and they'll probably never come back. We should send them down into the New York subways, except all the rats would probably then end up drowned in the harbor and that would be even worse. Seriously. They're like the Pied Piper."

She included that reference to New York City carefully, given its own reported problem with werewolf attacks, to see if Arthur's expression would flicker at all. When it didn't, she went on, "The wolves must have been there with Henry at least forty minutes before we showed up. That's plenty of time. Why were there still animals around?"

"How should I know?" Arthur looked mildly vexed. "You should be asking that friend of yours, whatever her name was. Are you quite sure you can rely on her for information? When push comes to shove, Teeth side with Teeth and Tails side with Tails. Even if your werewolf acquaintance did know of illicit activity, do you really think she'd sell out her friends to someone well placed to report to the vampire queen?" He took another gourmand sip of blood. "Mark my word, Miss Swan. They were werewolves."

"All right," Emma said. "They were werewolves, then. But you were still the only one who got a look at them or smelled them to be sure, there was a fire, there aren't any bodies left, and the Dorchester pack isn't going to like being accused when they've worked so hard to help revitalize the neighborhood. Especially the fact that Henry is my son and even if they don't like me much, they at least know that I'm friends with Ruby and she's told them we're off-limits. So if it comes down to your word against theirs, this is going to get messy."

"While I'm sure the Dorchester pack are furry pillars of the community," Arthur said, "it doesn't need to be their doing at all. Young wolves, loners. Rogues. Unattached and idle young men with too much bravado and too little sense cause problems for every society in the history of the world, so I fail to see how the supernatural one should be any different. And yes, it's entirely possible they moved in without the pack noticing. Seeing as Regina was unaware that her delightful sister had rejoined the party, it should be proven that you can't always count on those in charge knowing what they're supposed to know, or doing what they're supposed to do."

"Indeed," Emma said in a measured tone, meeting his eyes. "You can't."

Arthur's dimples flashed in a smile, almost charmingly but not quite. "Forthright, Miss Swan. I admire that. Indeed, _so_ forthright that I almost suspect I am being accused of something. Surely that isn't what you mean?"

 _Be careful,_ Emma told herself. This wasn't one of her usual bail-jumpers that she could trick and cozen and manipulate into confessing; this was the damn vampire potentate, and he could destroy her entire life with barely a twitch of his well-groomed fingers. It wasn't that she thought Arthur was outright lying. . . but she was perfectly aware of his reputation, and this just wasn't adding up. Somehow on his first night in Boston, the first time he'd left London in who knew how long, Arthur contrived to be at the center of a heroic rescue, pulling Henry out of some burning warehouse while personally witnessed by Regina's entire coven, then pinned the crime on a sudden rogue werewolf pack, who had all died anyway and were in no position to tell their side of the story? If they had even been wolves. Jesus, how deep did this mess _go?_

"Of course not," she said, after a slightly awkward pause. "I just want to get to the bottom of this. My son's involved, you can surely understand my worry."

"Naturally," Arthur said. "A maternal instinct. But your son _is_ an adult, Miss Swan, and it was thanks to me that he didn't come to any harm last night. You can't protect him forever."

"I'll do my best." Emma smiled coolly. "Do you know where he is now?"

"He left a note saying he was going to his office to finish with his manuscript." Arthur polished off his glass of blood and set it daintily on the table. "Don't worry, I made sure my security team is keeping an eye on him. Nobody will get in sniffing distance again."

"Thank you." Emma rose to her feet. "I need to run a few errands, so I'll see you later." In fact, she was wondering if there was any way to discreetly get back to her apartment and take her chances with Zelena infiltrating it, but that was still a stupid idea, and besides, Killian was temporarily dead as a doornail in the other bedroom. Considering how easy it would be for Arthur to finger him as a scapegoat, she didn't want to leave him dangling on a fishhook. It would have been only fair if he had actually done it to her, but since he hadn't, it seemed a bit unfair. But, well, he wasn't going to do a whole lot of good, or be much of a threat, as long as he was out, and she had to get to work. Besides, if Arthur was up to something, there was no reason to alienate him or let him out of sight. She smiled. "Have a good night."

Arthur nodded regally, returning to his paper, as Emma collected her bag and jacket, pulled her scarf up, and stepped into the elevator, riding down to the ground floor and stepping out into the lavish hotel foyer. The high windows were lashed with frigid rain sweeping in off the waterfront, and she grimaced; even for a vampire, running from here to Cambridge on a crummy night wouldn't be much fun, and if Arthur was footing the bill, she saw no reason not to impinge on his generosity a bit further. She detoured to the concierge stand and ordered a car.

It took a while to get through downtown with its Bruins game-night traffic, but they finally made it across the river to Harvard. Emma tipped the driver and got out, staggering as a gust of wind caught her. It was Friday night, but it didn't look as if anyone felt like being out longer than they had to (or else the fear of being attacked by an evil vampire if they did was keeping everyone in their dorms) and campus was very quiet, lit by pools of drowned yellow glow from the streetlamps. She sloshed to Barker and made her way inside, then went upstairs to Henry's office and knocked. "Henry, are you there? It's me."

"Yeah, come in." Henry pulled the door open with one hand, the other clutching what was plainly not his first Red Bull of the night. "I'm almost done with the damn book, and nothing's tried to kill me yet, so I'd say we're doing well. What's up? I didn't expect to see you here."

"I need to look a few things up in the library. By which I mean I need you to get me in and say they're for you, since obviously I'm not a student."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "What kind of research are we talking?"

"I need to know more about an Old One who went by the name of Gold," Emma said. "He was killed a hundred years ago, and he's the last rogue Old One we know of, at least according to Arthur. If we can find more about him – "

"We can possibly work out something about the current Old One behind this mess," Henry completed, following her train of thought with his usual acumen. "Speaking of Arthur, does he know you're here? Shouldn't you tell him what we're doing? He can probably help."

Emma hesitated. "Look, Henry, I know it's a cool experience meeting someone like that, especially for a nerd like you. But, well. . . I didn't want to say this last night, since we needed to make sure you were safe, but he's not exactly the perfect literary hero you think he is. He's an old, powerful vampire, and he's also a dangerous one. The supernatural world has had to skirt around him for years, and, well. . . I'm pretty sure he's lying about what happened to you. Or at least, he knows something he's not saying."

Henry's brow furrowed. "He saved my life, Mom. Even if he did it for some personal reason, we still owe him that."

"Yes, but. . ." Emma rubbed at the bridge of her nose. "I'm just saying, it's complicated, and we need to be careful what we share with him. And I'm starting to wonder if you were actually in danger at all, or if the entire thing was a setup. Arthur came out of this smelling like roses. It doesn't look so good for literally everyone else."

"If you have some actual proof of this, I'll be happy to listen," Henry said. "In the meantime, I know you don't do well with trusting people, but Arthur isn't our biggest concern. You may have noticed there's no one out, because campus security has instituted a curfew and have stepped up their patrols threefold. Alumni have been calling up and complaining that they're not going to donate any more money until the administration can prove it will keep the students safe. Asking whether the president should resign, what this says about our ideals as a university post-cheating scandal, you name it. We've had reporters setting up stakeouts, trying to catch the perp in the act, and getting in the way of the cops trying to do the same thing. It's turning into the giant shitstorm you'd expect when some mysterious lunatic is preying on a prestigious institution and nobody seems to have a damn clue who or how or why. We need to catch this Naomi person, if she is the one responsible, and to do that, as you said, we need to know more about Old Ones and what happens when they go bad. Come on, I'll take you to Widener."

Emma followed him downstairs and back into the night, across Quincy Street to the imposing columned edifice of the main university library, which was still apparently adhering to its 24-hour opening schedule; this _was_ Harvard, the chance of being munched on by a vampire did not necessarily outweigh the need to study obsessively. Henry swiped them in with his ID card, then detoured into one of the main computer rooms and booted up a PC. "Right, so," he said in an undertone. "Where do we start? It feels like this needs a codename. Operation Vampire Bat?"

Emma looked at him coldly.

"Just kidding. Operation. . . I don't know. . . Cobra. If what you're saying about the guy is true, it's probably not far off."

"That's not very comforting," Emma said wryly. "But fine, whatever. Operation Cobra. The only things I know about him are that he was called Gold, he was killed in 1916, he was made a vampire in 1500 when he was already in his fifties, and he was an influential player in the English Wars of the Roses and an advisor to the Tudor kings. Can we find out his real identity from that?"

Henry whistled, apparently impressed by these credentials. "Not sure, let's find out." He started to type. "By the way, where's Killian? I'm surprised he isn't with you. He could help us with this too."

"He's back at the hotel," Emma said. "I think he went into stasis. Old One healing coma, basically. And he. . . he doesn't know that I know about this. Gold was the vampire who turned him, and he was the one who eventually killed him in revenge. It's a sad story."

Henry looked at her slightly askance. "So you don't trust Arthur and think he might have set up whatever happened last night, but you'll still leave Killian there with him, totally undefended?"

"Hey," Emma said, stung. "What was I supposed to do? He's asleep, it's not like he'd pose a threat, and I. . . and I. . ." Her instinctive defenses petered out against the fact that she herself had wondered if it was wise to leave Killian in Arthur's power, but as Henry had said, this was by far their biggest problem. "If he does wake up, I'm sure he can take care of himself."

Henry made an indeterminate noise in his throat, but turned back to the screen, applying his formidable Google ninja skills to their present quandary. After a few minutes of industrious frowning and clicking, he looked at something, his frown deepened, and he turned the screen toward Emma. "Do you think that might be him?"

Emma leaned down and saw that Henry had the text of a Wikipedia article open (of course, in this bastion of knowledge and advanced research and world-class scholarship, it would be Wikipedia that cracked the case). It was about an Anglo-Scottish nobleman named Robert Fitzmalcolm, a substantial late medieval landholder and distant cousin of the ambitious, kingmaking Earl of Warwick. His dates of birth and death were listed as c.1449-1500, but there were a brief few [citation needed] sentences making note of the urban legend that he, like the Wandering Jew or the Comte St. Germain or Nicolas Flamel, had not actually died when he was supposed to and had gone on to have a smashing career high in the ranks of the Illuminati or the Templars or the Freemasons or whatever mythical organization was running the world these days. It was thus noted that due to his interest in alchemy, the art of turning lead to gold, he had adopted "Gold" as a sort of nom de plume, and begun signing his letters with it before his death. He had also been a noted occultist, which was not a remarkable pursuit for late fifteenth-century Europe; the entire continent was crazy for witch hunts and magic and charms and the study of the arcane, as the Renaissance came up with all sorts of wild new ideas about man and science and sorcery daily. In this capacity, Gold had written a book, _Liber incarcerati,_ which claimed to be some sort of translation or annotation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. But due to the fact that the Rosetta Stone had not been discovered until 1799, three hundred years after Gold's supposed death, most modern scholarship had dismissed it as the usual quasi-mystical ramblings of an eccentric Tudor aristocrat with too much time on his hands. A few manuscript copies had survived in archive collections, but had not been subject to serious study.

"That's him," Emma said, feeling her throat go dry. "That has to be him. And even if he couldn't have translated the hieroglyphs when he was writing in the sixteenth century, he definitely could have in the eighteenth. He wasn't killed until 1916. That's plenty of time."

Henry gave her a look. "Except for the fact that someone else obviously made him into a vampire," he said. "And that someone might not have needed the Rosetta Stone to translate hieroglyphs."

It took Emma a moment to grasp what he was suggesting. "What – you mean an Egyptian vampire? Or someone who was taught by one?"

"Someone who would have been an Old One by a millennium or two," Henry said. "And _Liber incarcerati –_ that name sounds familiar, I swear I've heard it before. Hold on."

He opened a new browser window and typed something in, then tapped his fingers impatiently as the campus internet chose this moment to take its sweet time about cooperating. Emma had a brief sensation of the hairs pricking on the back of her neck, as if someone was watching them from the balcony of shelves above, but when she looked up quickly, no one was there. They had the computer room all to themselves except for a geek in large black Bose headphones at the end, so as long as they kept their voices down, they could talk without incurring the wrath of the sacred library realm. Banishing the faint chill, she turned back as Henry made a small noise of surprise. "What?"

"It's just," Henry said slowly, "apparently only three libraries have original copies of the _Liber incarcerati_ manuscript. I didn't realize it was that rare. The British Library, Butler Library at Columbia University, and here, in Houghton."

 _London, New York, and Boston._ Somehow, that seemed a little too far beyond the realm of appreciable or excusable coincidence. "Well. . . fuck."

"Yeah." Henry remained frowning at the screen for a moment more, before pushing his chair back and checking his watch. "Special Collections is closed, but we might be able to at least get its catalogue record. Houghton's just across the way, let's go."

Leaving the computer room to the geek, they made their way to the smaller rare book and manuscript building, whereupon Henry turned on the charm to the librarian just about to leave for the night, and made much of how he really needed to check this one last reference before he submitted his book, and he knew how hard they worked and how under-appreciated they were, and that since he was junior faculty and hence in the same boat, they should stick together. It took a bit of doing, but he managed to get her to let them into the collections, and even allow that if he would be quick, she would fetch up the manuscript for him to the reading room. He agreed, with more flattery, and they waited as the librarian disappeared into the stacks. "So," Henry remarked, "I'm guessing you don't read Latin."

"No, do you?"

"Extremely badly," Henry admitted. "I'm better with Old English and Middle French and a bit of German, but maybe I can muddle through enough to get a sense of it. Not in any kind of quick way, though, so we'll just have to take a few notes and go so we don't keep her here all night."

As much as Emma wanted to do something that would somehow magically crack the case wide open, she knew it wasn't going to work – at least like this. So they waited, and waited, and were just starting to wonder if something bad had happened (not at all an unreasonable fear) when the librarian reappeared. She explained that she was sorry, she had checked through at least five times and searched in nearby filings and anywhere else it could have been put by accident (though it wasn't exactly a hot ticket and she wasn't sure anyone had accessed it recently, or even semi-recently, or semi-semi-recently, more commonly known as "for a long-ass time.") But so it was. It wasn't there, and she had no idea where it could have possibly gone. The collections were closed, only librarians could go in or out, and the items could only be consulted in the reading room and then returned, so it wasn't as if an inattentive undergraduate could have wandered out with it stuffed in their backpack. Furthermore, considering everything else going on, the odds of it going missing by accident were comparable to that nice price on swampland in Florida. Someone wanted that book, and not to write a journal article on it.

Henry and Emma thanked the librarian as she promised to track it down; this was an old and valuable manuscript, its potential loss or theft was no laughing matter. Henry said he was sure it wasn't her fault and he'd testify that she hadn't had anything to do with it, which was perhaps an unfortunate choice of words as it reminded her that there might end up being legal proceedings. As they headed down the hall, Emma turned a corner too fast and collided with someone else, a young woman, coming the other way; they reeled backwards, apologizing in unison. "I'm sorry, I didn't – really, it was my fault, I – "

"No, it's mine, I'm so clumsy these days, I'd trip over a pebble in the middle of a highway." The young woman pushed her dark, shiny hair out of her eyes and looked apologetic. She spoke with an English accent, and that, combined with her features, must get her plenty of attention. She had a fresh, glowing complexion, a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and wide blue eyes, and to judge from the way Henry was staring, it was an effective combination. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"I'm fine," Emma said, blinking. Even she was not immune from a momentary sensation that the other woman was something rare and special, too good for this dark and grubby world. She was wearing a faint perfume, like rose petals, just enough to entice without overwhelming, and Emma felt a sudden desire to breathe it in. Also, something almost like déjà-vu, some dreamy memory she couldn't quite recall. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"

"Not that I know of," the young woman said, and extended her hand. "I'm Caroline."

"Emma." They shook, as strange as it seemed to be exchanging introductions with someone you'd just run into around a corner, and Caroline knelt to pick up the papers that Emma had knocked out of her hands. With a final apology and glance behind her, Emma discreetly prodded Henry into motion again, and they stepped out of Houghton into the night. The rain was sweeping sideways, making both of them grimace and pull their hoods tight.

"We need to head back to the hotel," Henry said, raising his voice over the downpour. "If Killian hunted Gold for centuries, I'm guessing he knows something about this. A research trip to New York might not be out of the question either. It's a lot closer than going back to London."

Emma nodded distractedly, the scent of Caroline's perfume lingering in her nose, and shook her head hard, like someone trying to break out of a hypnotist's trance. "Yeah, all right. But what if he's still asleep?"

"There has to be a way to wake him." A corner of Henry's mouth twitched. "True love's kiss?"

"You know," Emma said lightly, "I'm not sure you should be trying to set us up, if that's the way you feel about him."

Henry gave her a tolerant look, both acknowledging that he had walked right into that one and reminding her that he meant what he had said last night. Heads down, they sloshed across to the parking lot and into his car; he had apparently stopped by his house to pick it up, so at least there were no more of the (fake?) werewolf kidnappers lurking in wait. They drove across downtown back to the harbor and the hotel, handed the car off to the valet, and took the elevator up to the Presidential Suite, doing their best to look as if this kind of thing happened every day. The door pinged and they stepped out, still damp, as Arthur looked up magisterially. "Ah, hello. Dr. Nolan, did you get the book finished?"

"Mostly," Henry said, wringing out his scarf. "Anything I missed probably won't cost me a shot at tenure. I'll FedEx it out first thing tomorrow. Is Killian awake yet?"

"No." Arthur looked regretful. "Can I interest you in dinner?"

"I'm definitely hungry," Henry conceded. "Room service again?"

Arthur chuckled. "If you want. Or I could take you to this establishment's fine restaurant – I'm sure they serve something to tempt you. You must have all sorts of questions for me as well. About Camelot, the Round Table, and the like."

"Uh," Henry said, shooting a glance at Emma in which he managed to communicate both that he was dying to have a private interview with King Frigging Arthur, and that if he did, it would remove said king from the vicinity for her to try to wake up Killian (and talk to him) without interference. "That sounds – that sounds great, really."

"Wonderful. Let me get my jacket." Arthur got up and vanished into his room, then reappeared in full evening attire, making Henry look down self-consciously at his rumpled tweed jacket and khakis. "Oh, no one will notice what you're wearing if you're with me. After the amount of money I've spent here, I could fling someone off the roof and they would ask if I wanted two concierges or three to catch them on the way down." He laughed.

Emma winced, hoped he didn't see it, and waited until Henry and Arthur had departed on their bro-date before cautiously crossing the floor to the bedroom, turning the key, and opening the door to peer in. Still no apparent sign of movement or life from Killian.

She frowned, stepped inside and shut the door. Some brief nervous conviction that he had _actually_ died made her hurry over to check that he hadn't, which was a bit more difficult with vampires since they, obviously, didn't have things like pulse or breathing or body heat. But he wasn't a pile of dust, which attested to his continued existence, and having already discovered the futility of loud noises at waking him, she had to think hard. Dropping him out of bed probably wouldn't do the trick either, and seemed rude. In fact, none of the usual mortal methods to rouse a deep sleeper would work on an Old One in stasis, so she had to get creative.

After a moment, she climbed up on the bed next to him, considered, then bit her wrist. She gently thumbed open the full curve of his lower lip, and splashed a fat red drop of blood into his mouth.

At first, no response. A faint shiver seemed to pass through him, like the fleeting shadows of fish in a frozen pond, but he didn't stir. Then at once, someone yanked the fire alarm in his head, his vampiric reflexes decided that nobody would be rousing him from stasis unless it was the completest of life and death emergencies, and he sat bolt upright as if electrified, snarling, fangs bared. Eyes completely black, he shot to the ceiling and swung off the chandelier, jumped toward the door, and crashed into Emma, who had realized that this was going to require a professional.

They rolled on the floor like a pair of extremely bad wrestlers, grappling and twisting and clawing, as she tried to manage the delicate art of not letting him kill her while not accidentally killing him herself. They staggered upright, crashed into an end table and knocked off the vase, which made her flash out a hand to grab it and teeter it back into place as they proceeded to give the window glass a stringent safety test by dint of ramming into it repeatedly. Killian flipped over her head, and she launched headlong after him, as they hit the closet on the far side of the room and went skidding on the hangers. (Fortunately there were no thousand-dollar suits attached to them, or that would really have been unfortunate.) She had him pinned for a moment, but he twisted around on her with astonishing speed, dissolving like smoke between her fingers, and reappearing atop the bed, which had half of its covers torn off. She crouched, then jumped, got hold of him and hung on as he thrashed like a fish on a net, straddled him, and pushed a pillow down on his face until even a vampire's altered oxygen requirements got the memo that something was not proceeding according to plan. His hands dropped, a shudder heaved through him, and a muffled voice said, "Swan, what the devil?"

"Oh, good." Emma let the pillow drop, remaining vigilant in case of further assaults, but all she saw was him, looking exceptionally disheveled, confused, and indignant, giving her those big blue puppy-dog eyes. "Sorry about that. I had to wake you up somehow."

He groaned, collapsing back into the tangled coverlets. "Whatever happened to serving a fellow breakfast in bed? He likes to be courted before leaping directly into the kinky business."

"You were in stasis, I don't think the gentle scent of scrambled eggs and toast was going to work. Even if it was something you could, you know, eat."

"So instead you elected for autoerotic asphyxiation?" He sat upright, still looking wounded, dark hair ruffled up into cowlicks that she itched to smooth down. "Well, I feel terrible. I'm sure you have a good reason for interrupting the only decent interval of sleep I've gotten in a week?"

"Yeah." Emma hesitated; much as she could explain away her knowledge of the whole Gold business by saying that Regina had told her, which was after all the truth, there was no way this could be enjoyable for him to go through again. "How about you take a moment, and then we'll discuss it?"

"Aye, why not," Killian grumbled, eyes flickering to her, as they both realized she was still straddling him. "If the lady would permit?"

She flushed, rolling off as he shuffled groggily into the bathroom like most people did upon waking, undead or otherwise. (She had never met a zombie, but couldn't rule out the fact that they might exist.) Then she went out to the living room and waited until the dark vampire king emerged from his dread sepulcher, still looking peeved. He grabbed Arthur's decanter of blood and poured himself a glass, putting it down without comment, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat down unsteadily. "Right, what's this about?"

As diplomatically as she could, Emma brought him up to speed on what she and Henry had been investigating earlier, as his lips went thin and his hands white-knuckled. He looked up at the ceiling, silent for a long moment, until he finally said in a cool voice, "So, lass, clearly you know a great deal about me, don't you?"

"I'm sorry," Emma said again. "I didn't want to bring it up, but I'm starting to think they're connected. Gold, and this Naomi, _if_ Zelena's actually telling the truth and she's the one responsible. The _Liber incarcerati_ is missing from the library, and the other one's in Columbia, in New York. Plus the one in London. Do you know anything about it?"

Killian didn't answer for a long moment, staring at his fingers, until he finally heaved a sigh. "Only a bit. _Liber incarcerati,_ Book of the Prisoner. It was based on the Egyptian Book of the Dead – but you know, Book of the Dead really isn't the best way to translate it. It's more Book of Coming into the Light, or Book of Daybreak, perhaps. It's filled with spells on how to restore a dead person to all the attributes of life, to grant them powers, even godlike ones. In short – "

"A manual on how to make vampires." Emma felt a faint chill pass through her. "Do you know who turned Gold into a vampire?"

"Only by hearsay. Someone called Zoso, or Zosimus. He was over a thousand years old at the time – briefly served as Pope early in the fifth century, in fact. Known for his conflict with the heretic Pelagius – but many people believed he only condemned Pelagius because his hand was forced, and he may have had secret sympathies for him. Which appears to have been correct, obviously."

"Obviously how?" Emma was totally lost. "You'll have to fill me in here."

"Pelagius was St. Augustine of Hippo's great opponent," Killian explained. "One of them, at least. He believed that Christian salvation could be achieved solely through following the law to the letter, and that God's grace wasn't necessarily required. An early formulation of the doctrine of free will. He's been misinterpreted as someone who had a higher opinion of humanity than Augustine's low and sinful creature, when in fact he was even more extreme: you had the capacity to follow the law and thus save yourself, it was incumbent upon you, the individual, not to cock it up, whereas Augustine allowed that humans are flawed and imperfect beings who have to be forgiven for their misdeeds. Augustine permitted them to make mistakes, in short, and be redeemed by God. Pelagius didn't."

Emma frowned. "But how does that explain why Zosimus became a vampire?"

"Because Pelagius was one," Killian said. "That was the entire point of his heresy. He was trying to make Christianity compatible with vampirism. If you, as a monster and a creature both living and dead, were now outside the remit of mortal souls, if you were separated from God's grace, you still had a chance to be saved by doing everything right, by following the rules to the letter. It's the early foundation of supernatural law. It got plenty mixed up and sideways in the centuries to follow, of course, but it's still there. And if Zosimus turned into a vampire – I can't remember when his mortal death was supposed to be, the year 417 or 418 – then Pelagius must have convinced him not only that it was possible, but it was a better way altogether."

"So Pelagius convinced this pope, who turned into a vampire, who then turned Gold into a vampire eleven centuries later. . ." Emma felt a sudden need for a pen and paper to write this all down. "But was Pelagius Egyptian?"

"No," Killian said. "He was from the British Isles, in fact."

"So he was British, and around in the fifth century, and. . ." Emma's eyes widened. "When is the historical Battle of Badon Hill supposed to have happened? The one Arthur fought in, which assuming it _is_ this Arthur, would make him at least sixteen hundred years old?"

"Bede dated it to about forty-four years after the Saxon invasion," Killian said. "Between 493 and 500, roughly. What are you suggesting, love?"

"Pelagius and Arthur were probably colleagues." Emma didn't know where the thought had come from, only that as soon as she said it, she was certain. "They were from the same place and the same time, and they sound like they have a lot in common. This rigid, high-minded way of doing things right, and never forgiving mistakes, getting obsessed with the law. Being convinced it was the only way, that collateral damage was simply not important, and human error was itself a sin. After sixteen hundred years, don't you think this kind of worldview would do some strange things to Arthur?"

Killian frowned. "You're not wrong," he said after a moment. "It does sound like him. And the reason Gold wrote the _Liber_ was because he thought the Book of the Dead didn't finish its job. It made vampires, it gave them powers, but they were still limited – by sunlight, by silver, by crucifixes, by the fact that you had to invite them in, that it was such effort to make a new one, and all the other rules and quirks and complexities designed to protect humans. That was why he called it _Book of the Prisoner._ He wanted to remove all the restraints on vampires' power, make it so they could have everything and not have to sacrifice what they did. The witan knew what would happen if he succeeded. That's why they ordered his book destroyed."

"Except not entirely," Emma said. "There are still three copies of that manuscript left. And we only know where two of them are."

They looked at each other for a long moment, as the realization sank in to both of them. That Zelena, Naomi, and possible further miscreants not only had their hands on the copy of the _Liber_ stolen from Harvard, but must be actively attempting to carry out whatever black magic Gold prescribed in it, hoping to turn themselves all-powerful. Zelena herself had openly said to Emma that she wanted the world to be suited for vampires, not humans, and like a petulant child, she hated being told no or thwarted in any capacity; this would be exactly the kind of project she would be interested in. Arthur's potential involvement was less clear. He might want more power over the supernatural world, correctly deciding that his role as potentate was only window dressing – that he, King Arthur, was not being taken seriously, and that he, fueled by self-righteous legalism and zealotry, knew best and they were all frauds and failures. If that meant working with Zelena, against her, diagonally, or sideways, it was impossible to say.

"Shit," Emma said after a moment. "And we know there's someone in London who's already meddled with the Old Ones registry to frame you. They might be going after the British Library copy as a failsafe, and to make sure no one else gets their hands on it. And the werewolf attacks in New York – "

"Who wants to bet they have targeted persons connected with Columbia University, the same as the attacks here have centered on Harvard?" Killian's scowl deepened. "And that they might not even _be_ werewolves, but merely disguised as them, to deflect suspicion elsewhere?"

"Regina said that the vampire queen of New York was a nasty piece of work." Emma ran a hand over her face. "Cruella. Do you think she might be in on it?"

"Wouldn't doubt it, if that's the same Cruella I've heard about." Killian picked up the decanter and finished it off, not even bothering to pour into the glass first. It made his eyes turn briefly black again, and considering that impulse she had had earlier to brutally take down and feed on Arthur, Emma wasn't sure a straight diet of Old One blood was the best idea for an Old One struggling to overcome his darker habits. As well, since she was already struggling with the budding sense of an addiction to it, it might be that Killian couldn't resist, that he – someone with the hell of a drinking problem, to judge from what he'd said about his relationship with Will – wanted to be stronger, but couldn't. At that, Emma couldn't help but wonder if Arthur had given it to them on purpose, like a drug dealer enticing them to try heroin just once, see if they liked it. Bend their judgment, distort their perception, make them decide to stay close in hopes of having more, after he designed his heroic rescue for Henry. _Son of a bitch, has he stopped lying once since he got here?_ Using Arthur standing up with his mouth moving as an indicator that he was lying was no good, as he had also sometimes been lying while sitting down.

"Son of a bitch," she said again, this time aloud. "I think we need to go to New York and get that other copy of the manuscript before it's too late."

"That would seem to be the plan." Killian's tongue darted out to catch a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth, fangs still gleaming sharp. "Also give us an insight into what exactly they need to do to achieve this whole damn thing, if it's even possible, or just smoke and mirrors."

"Mirrors wouldn't be much good for a vampire anyway," Emma said. "In your. . . experience of Gold, do you think it would be something he could pull off?"

"I put nothing past that bastard," Killian said flatly. "If anyone could do such a thing, and not scruple an instant at whatever it took to make it happen, it would be him. One of him was bad enough. The prospect of two, or three, or more – of the entire vampire race becoming like him – I'd rather die. Everyone would be better off that way."

Despite herself, Emma flinched at the rawness and hurt and anger in his words, the fact that not even an intervening century had lessened the hatred Killian felt for Gold, or the lasting damage the mad-scientist vampire had caused him. "Well, we need to get to New York, and I think we should bring Henry with us – if nothing else, he's a professor at Harvard, he can make it easier for us to get into Columbia without having to mesmer the shit out of everyone. Besides, you two together are a pretty formidable intellectual tag-team. We might actually have a chance to get somewhere on this. If we could only just get some hint on Naomi, as to who the hell she actually is and what she's doing to snake her way around campus, that would – "

And with that, she stopped.

"What?" Killian said. "What?"

"Son of a bitch," Emma said, for the third time. "I think I may have met her."


	10. Chapter 10

**London, 1734**

The carriage jounced to a stop yet again in the midst of the crowded thoroughfare, the driver leaning off the running board and roundly abusing the idiot in the brougham who had apparently never learned how to drive his bloody conveyance without causing horror and catastrophe to the masses, and Killian Jones leaned against the stiff velvet-backed seat with a sigh. "If I'd known it was going to take so long to get to Whitehall, I'd have suggested we walk," he said, rapping on the roof to no effect as a further holdup embroiled traffic ahead. "Then again, I doubt the Admiralty would think much of us tromping in with muddy boots and filthy coats and looking as if we were fresh off the ship after two months' voyage from the Indies."

"The hearing starts at two o'clock, St. Paul's only just sounded half past the hour. We should be quite timely." Liam paused, stuck his head out the window to survey the situation, and amended, "Still, if those fools don't get their oxen out of the way, there _will_ be hell to pay. Parliament really ought to make a law about these things."

"Maybe you can suggest one," Killian said, grinning at his brother. "You'll have rather a say-so, don't you think? Commodore Liam Jones, fleet commander of His Majesty's Royal Navy, West Indies. Surely that would entice an entire host of back-benchers to take notice of your views on the deplorable disorder of City traffic. Have you printed up new calling cards yet?"

"No," Liam said crisply. "Because I don't believe in crossing bridges I haven't reached."

"Oh, come now, Li. We all know the hearing's just a formality. The Admiralty Board will hem and haw and shuffle papers, a lot of boring todgers in wigs will make speeches, and then they'll sign off on your promotion. You'll be the highest-ranking officer in the entire Caribbean. They'd be lunatics not to."

"Aye, perhaps." A thin line creased Liam's brows. "Or they could ask me about the Port Royal incident, the sinking of the _Mary Elizabeth,_ and our handling of the slave revolt. The moral good and the laws of Great Britain don't much see eye to eye on that matter, as you well know."

Killian winced. The Jones brothers' uncompromising refusal to escort slave ships, support the trade or practice of chattel bondage, and discreet overlooking of the revolt that killed twelve notoriously brutal overseers on British sugar plantations in Jamaica had certainly earned them the censure of their superiors in the Royal Navy before, even if nothing could be proved, and they did their job more than well enough to render further questions moot. They caught enough pirates to make up for it, at least, and the British Crown's worry for its shipping in the region was chief among the reasons they were now considering Liam for elevation to the rank of commodore. He had captained the HMS _Imperator_ for over a decade, Killian serving as his first lieutenant and right-hand man for nearly all of that time, and they had made countless trips to the Indies, to Africa, to Europe, to the American colonies, navigating hurricanes and dark taverns and thieves' hideouts and shipboard duels with privateers and every other sort of adventure, always knowing they'd come through as long as they were together.

Now Liam was just a year shy of forty, and Killian, eight years his junior, would turn thirty-two this summer. But for all their accomplishments and the esteem of their peers and what they had made of themselves, they had never forgotten being sold into indentured servitude as boys by their father, kept aboard ship as small better than slaves themselves, and from the day they gained their freedom, vowed never to inflict the same on another man, woman, or child again. Nor would they, almost entirely alone among the ships of the line, employ the services of the press gang, the thugs that roamed ports and docklands looking for any man who might be enjoying his life too much, beating him up, knocking him out, and dragging him on board to serve His Majesty's Royal Navy until he could escape or until he died, the latter being far more common. Liam had made several speeches before Parliament to the effect that the mortality rate of sailors wouldn't be so staggeringly high, and thus there would not be such rapacious need of the press gangs, if there was some change to the standing orders requiring Royal Navy captains to be as brutal as possible – orders that he routinely risked his own hide to defy. He pointed out that he had sailed with only minimal loss to his crew for almost ten years, that all of them were relatively healthy and without scurvy, and much more devotedly loyal both to him and to His Majesty the King, George II of the House of Hanover, than they would be if they were starved, beaten, ruled by fear and tyranny and impressed into a state little different from slavery. While the abolitionists and the newspapers and several bishops had taken up his cause, as well as the citizens of the coastal cities most heavily ravaged by the press gangs, the old guard on the Admiralty Board regarded it as highly suspicious. It sniffed altogether too much like basic human decency, and if given free rein, would surely render the proud Royal Navy far too soft and womanly to do anyone the least bit of use. It was _discipline_ that built a great empire, not this ridiculous coddling. Doubtless some of them would be present to say so today at Liam's promotion hearing.

The carriage nearly broke an axle as they jounced over another rut in the muddy boulevard that stretched toward Westminster, the Houses of Parliament, and the distinctive square towers of the Abbey. Their destination was Whitehall, which should only be another few minutes if the offending oxen had been cleared from the route, and Liam was fiddling with his tricorne, a sure sign that he was starting to feel the nerves even if he wouldn't say. Killian put a hand on his brother's arm. "Oy, Li. You'll be wonderful. Really."

Liam raised a wry eyebrow. "That's _Captain Jones_ to you, sailor. Otherwise I might accidentally call you 'little brother' in front of the Sea Lord again.'

"Arse," Killian grumbled, though affectionately enough. "So, once this is all through, we should celebrate tonight, eh? The Hook and Compass, that's a good public house. Though now you'll be a commodore, I expect White's will invite you to register membership shortly. But unless you really fancy a toff supper club, the Hook and Compass will – "

Liam looked at him with both eyebrows arched. "Is it something you recommend on the strength of its victuals, or the fact that the lady Milah works there?"

"Wha – what – ?" Killian opened and shut his mouth, taken off guard and spluttering. "I didn't – Li, how did – I've never even mentioned – "

"No," Liam said, his tone turning far more serious, and more than a bit angry. "You've never mentioned the fact that you were seeing one of his – one of _his_ drones, Killian! Likely because you knew I'd say exactly this. Stay the bloody hell out of Lord Fitzmalcolm's business. No right-minded gentleman trusts those monsters anyway. I know Walpole has been making noises about treating them as equals, now that they've supposedly outlawed hunting men for sport, but would a sheep enter into commerce with the wolf even if the wolf had done the same? They're animals, Killian. Animals, and they'll turn on us the instant they get the first chance. Listen to me. Stay away from supernaturals and everything to do with them."

Killian hesitated, running a finger up to loosen his cravat and taking rather a long time about fixing it. "Milah isn't a bloodsucker, Li. She's human. Lord Fitzmalcolm's kept her as a. . . well, as a. . . . companion for a long time. She hates it, she wants to be free. I'd hoped you'd help. You and I, you know how we feel about slaves, the risks we've taken to liberate – "

"There's a difference between refusing to protect slavers carrying entire human cargoes to be sold at market, and poking Lord bloody Fitzmalcolm straight in the eye by carrying off his favorite concubine, Killian!" Liam's voice rose in agitation. "I'm sorry for the lady, it doesn't sound a desirable position to be in, but we also have no right to interfere in their business, and it'll be damned dangerous for us if we do. How long has this been going on?"

Killian hesitated. "Almost three years."

"Three years!" Liam cast his eyes at the heavens in silent appeal. "You've been sniffing around one of Lord Fitzmalcolm's drones for almost _three years,_ and your head hasn't been forcibly parted from your shoulders yet?"

"Well, it's been mostly by letters, since I've been abroad with you. But ever since I got back to London, we've been seeing each other. In Covent Garden and Vauxhall and. . . other such places." Killian's face warmed at the thought of what generally then ensued once they had obtained their privacy, another subject that Liam – who despite being almost forty and unmarried was one of the obnoxiously morally upright men who only visited a brothel once in a blue moon, and then usually had to be dragged – was not likely to understand. There was seemingly no space in Captain (or soon to be, Commodore) Liam Jones for anything other than devotion to his duty, his men, his ship, and his king, and after a lifetime at sea, perhaps he had not wanted to marry any woman who might be faced with losing him at any time. He and Killian were each other's companions, each other's society, each other's partners in life and adventure – yet much as he loved his brother more than his own soul, Killian was not the same kind of man, the one who could do without romantic or carnal intimacy for months and months at a time. He needed Milah, needed her laugh and the swing of her long dark hair and the taste of her mouth against his, the way she fit into him, the warmth of her touch and her earthy jests and gentle teasing. He had been a really quite insufferable, straight-laced young prig when he was first made lieutenant, and she had helped to bring some sense of perspective and humor to him, made him more comfortable in his own skin than he could ever remember. And no matter if Lord Robert Fitzmalcolm would be very, very dangerously displeased if he knew, even despite Liam's warnings and thinly veiled disapproval, he did not intend to give her up.

"Well," he said, trying to change the subject. "Looks as if we're almost there. Ready, Captain?"

"Ready." Liam met his eyes seriously. Both the Jones brothers were well-favored and handsome men, Liam several inches taller and broader than Killian, the captain's golden epaulets gleaming on his tailed blue coat, both in white waistcoats and polished black boots, sabers buckled around their waists. Neither of them wore wigs, preferring their own hair pulled back in a neat queue and tied with a ribbon, and a few curls were escaping around Liam's face in the damp. He licked a finger and pushed it out of his eyes as the carriage pulled into the drive before the imposing grey mansion of the Admiralty, and the footman swung down to get the door and unfold the steps for them. Liam debarked first, putting on his hat, and Killian clambered after him. Mist beaded on their cloaks as they crossed the square, the wet air smelling of mud and Thames-murk and the usual ripe city stench, distant shouts ringing from the thoroughfare as more carriage drivers encountered difficulties and church bells called the hour. Pigeons and seagulls rioted out from under their boots with every stride, squawking angrily at the disruption.

"Wait," Killian said, as they passed under the portico. "Let me look."

Liam stopped, allowing Killian to give him a quick once-over, tug his crooked collar into place, and brush the droplets off. Ablutions concluded, Killian clapped his shoulder reassuringly, summoning up an encouraging grin. "Come on, Commodore. We're almost there."

"Almost." Liam took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "Well then, Lieutenant. Let's go."

* * *

Four hours later, the Jones brothers were once more standing on the same portico in hopes of engaging a carriage, but in far from the festive mood they had anticipated. Contrary to Killian's optimistic appraisal of the situation, and unfortunately more in line with Liam's pessimistic one, the hearing had turned out to be anything but a fait accompli. It had taken the Board nearly the entire bloody afternoon to get to the point after all their mealy-mouthing, but the point was thus: the jury, sir, was hung. Quite hung. Most thoroughly and indisputably hung; indeed, if you strung a pirate up by the neck at Execution Dock and dropped him down the trapdoor, it would be difficult for him to be more hung than the jury, gentlemen, was at present. Half of them felt indeed that Liam's dedicated, competent, and conscientious service to the realm for many years warranted the promotion to commodore and command over the West Indies fleet, and they felt so quite ardently. The other half felt, with equal or greater ardor, that Liam could not be trusted to safeguard Britain's economic interests in regard to the slave trade, or to impose the correct standard of order aboard his vessel, or indeed respect the proper way of things at all, and thus promoting him to commodore would be a mistake as crushing to the English military as the Battle of Hastings. Neither could any member of either camp be swayed in the slightest from their convictions; there was no leeway for anyone to break the deadlock, and thus the matter had to be referred to the Privy Council. There was no chance it would be heard or attended to quickly, seeing as it had an entire new gauntlet of political infighting to get through, and thus that left the brothers in bureaucratic limbo. While the matter remained unsettled, it would be unseemly to return them to active command, and as such, they were expected to wait in London until a resolution could be reached. Which, realistically, would be at least six months.

Liam was tense and abstracted, clearly angry, and Killian was stewing as well. He had perhaps not helped the cause with a remark to the effect that if Great Britain could only be built on slavery and brutality, perhaps it did not deserve to be built at all; the entire row of bewigged heads had swiveled as one to glare at him, clearly suspecting the worst of his moral fiber and dedication to king and country. Nothing, however, could be done. They would just have to wait.

To Killian, who had some idea of what he could do with six months at leisure, this prospect was not entirely dreadful, but he was still outraged that it was coming at a result of the Admiralty's bickering and division and distrust of a man who had dedicated his entire life to its service. "For Christ's sake," he said. "Who else are they going to promote, Cutler sodding Beckett?"

Liam grimaced, as it would have been difficult to find a man more completely his antithesis; the two more or less openly hated each other, and indeed Killian wondered if Beckett had been having a secret word or two with the Board to make sure Liam's promotion didn't go through. "I think I could do with a drink after all. Where's this tavern of yours?"

"In Tavistock Street," Killian said. "Just near Drury Lane."

Liam grimaced again, apparently thinking (correctly) that since he had not suffered enough today, he now would have to contend with a horde of bloody _theatricals_. "Don't tell me this Milah of yours is a regular Nell Gwynne. Sells oranges too, does she?"

"She does what she has to," Killian said, a bit sharply. Liam's uncompromising notions of morality could be tiresome at times. "She has a son, you know. A little lad named Baelfire. Lord Fitzmalcolm's taken rather a shine to him, treats him as his own, but Milah still has to pay for their bed and board. The man doesn't keep his drones for free."

Liam's face went darker at the knowledge that a child was living in that den of iniquity, under the thumb of a mysterious, monstrous peer of the House of Lords, and the only member of that august body who had held his seat for over two hundred years. Lord Fitzmalcolm's immortal status was more or less an open secret, as he had never made any outstanding attempt to conceal it – nor to emerge, to host the suppers and salons and soirees of high society, remaining secluded in his grand townhouse in Chelsea, or his country home in Essex. He always attracted a clique of the curious, the grasping, the powerful, the opportunistic, and the mad, and the rest of London tiptoed carefully around him. Even King George did not try to throw his royal weight around where the vampire was concerned. Robert Fitzmalcolm – or as he was most commonly known by his one-word nom de plume, _Gold –_ was simply far too dangerous for that.

A carriage pulled up shortly, which Liam hailed, and the brothers climbed in and ordered the driver to make for Covent Garden. This journey was barely faster than the last, though at least most of the crowds had cleared out as dusk was falling, and it had started to rain again by the time they arrived. The Hook and Compass stood on the corner, shingle swinging in the wind and a warm glow lapping up the windows, as the Jones brothers opened the door and strode inside.

It was a busy, lowlit tavern, crooked and low-beamed, the brothers keeping their cloaks on so nobody would take notice of their Navy uniforms and single them out for unwanted attention. They took a seat in a corner booth as a bar wench brought them two tankards of ale, eyeing up Liam appreciatively. "Something t' keep you warm tonight, sir?"

"What?" Liam said distractedly. "Oh, aye, shepherd's pie if you have it."

"That we do, sir, that we do." The wench leaned in, swelling attractively out of her dirty chemise. "Anything else, then?"

"No, that should be all, thank you." Liam put a crown on the table, which she snatched up with alacrity. "Killian?"

With a slight eye-roll, Killian informed the wench that the shepherd's pie would be suitable for him as well, and when she had swished off with a disappointed look, kicked his brother. "She wasn't offering just food, you nitwit."

"Oh?" Liam took a sip of his beer. "And was I supposed to do something about that?"

"Probably not," Killian sighed, glancing around to see if Milah was working tonight. But he didn't spot her, which was unusual. "You're bloody hopeless."

"Just because I, unlike you, do not seek company in the arms of tavern wenches, _and_ one of Lord Fitzmalcolm's drones to boot, does not mean I am hopeless," Liam said, taking another, longer drink of beer. "And I'm well aware that you know exactly how you want to spend our enforced six-month sabbatical while the Admiralty squabbles. I'm telling you again. Don't."

Killian didn't know how to respond. He had never in his life seriously thought about disobeying Liam, and didn't want to start now, but his stubbornness was at least equal to that of his famously pigheaded sibling, and just because Liam lived like a monk didn't mean he felt any obligation to. At last he said, "I love her, Liam."

Liam gave him a weary look. "Doubtless you think so."

"No, I _know_ so. And if you'd just help me get her and Baelfire out of – "

"And what? How are you planning to support her? Get her a house and send your earnings back, let her keep working in a tavern, or think that Lord Fitzmalcolm will just cheerily agree to have you steal her away, pack her portmanteau and wave her farewell? Or are you planning to leave the Navy as well? Leave me?"

"What? Li, no! Never! I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, you know that. If the Admiralty ever sorts heads from arses and lets us get back to it, of course. But Milah – "

"I don't want to hear any more about this." Liam's temper was clearly badly frayed from the debacle of the afternoon, and Killian's insistence on prodding the sleeping dragon was only making it worse. "Forget about her, Lieutenant. That is an order."

A long silence hung between them, even as the hustle and bustle of the tavern carried on to every side. Then Killian lifted his mug. "As you command, Captain," he said, and crossed his fingers under the table. He hated doing this, but there was no other choice. "I don't remember a thing."

It was quite late by the time they finally left, Milah having not appeared and Killian managing to get another of the wenches to confess that she was supposed to have been at work tonight and they weren't sure why she wasn't. He saw Liam into a carriage headed back to the boarding house they had rented a room in, as they had never been in London long enough over the past ten years to warrant purchasing a permanent residence. The Duke of Bedford, John Russell, was selling some property in Bloomsbury, intending to develop the area as a residential square, and they were considering making a home there, but their interest had not yet advanced beyond the abstract. Perhaps if they were hung up here for some time, that would become more concrete, but as for now, it was still rented lodgings. Once he had promised Liam that he would be along shortly, just had something to check back at the docks, Killian caught another carriage and told the driver to head for Chelsea.

When they pulled up, he told the driver to wait just around the corner, then got down and advanced cautiously down the cobbled lane. He happened to know that Lord Fitzmalcolm was currently away on a hunting trip to his vast Scottish estate in Galloway, and hoped he hadn't taken Milah with him, as that would put a crimp in Killian's plans for any number of reasons. He had to be careful sneaking in here anyway, as plenty of Milah's fellow drones would take the opportunity to tattle to their master if they spotted him, but this was a chance that might not come again. He ducked around the side of the house to her window at the back, grabbed a pebble, and threw it up, rattling against the pane.

After a nerve-wracking few moments, it creaked open, and she appeared in the frame, looking around warily, holding a candle. "What? Who's there?"

"Hsst!" Killian stepped out of the shadows, holding a finger to his lips. "It's me!"

Milah's eyes lit up at the sight of him, but she bit her tongue, clearly not wanting to risk waking the household at an injudicious moment. She beckoned to him silently to wait, then withdrew, shut the window, and after several minutes, the kitchen door opened and she hurried out, running to him as he pulled her into his arms and they kissed for a long moment. When they drew apart, she whispered, "What are you doing here?"

"You weren't at work. I was concerned."

"Killian. . ." She hesitated, looking up into his face. "I think Robert knows."

A faint chill went down his back at that, but he wasn't afraid of Robert bloody Fitzmalcolm, vampire or not, and if he had to face the bastard down to get Milah away from him, that was what he intended to do. "He's still in Scotland, isn't he?"

"Yes." Milah looked at him pleadingly. "Take me away from here. Before he comes back. Please."

"What about Bae?"

She paused. "Robert took him to Scotland. He likes him, the other drones look after him. He'll be fine. I want to come with you, Killian. I want to have adventures. I've spent so long working my fingers to the bone to support him, and Bae. . . he'll have a better life here anyway. Please." She took his face in her hands. "Let's run away together and start fresh."

He turned his head and kissed her fingers, entranced by the pictures her words were painting, even as a small voice was replaying Liam's warnings. That it couldn't be that easy, that this was madness, but he was in love, and he did not care. Still. . . "You're _certain_ you're all right with leaving Bae?"

"I'm not meant to be a mother." Milah looked down. "And he's happy here. He's going to be Lord Fitzmalcolm's hand-picked heir, he'll have everything he needs. Please. Let's run away."

Killian wavered once more. It was true they might never get another chance like this, and now that he had started down this path, he wasn't about to turn back. No matter what. "Very well," he said, after one final hesitation. "Get your things."

Milah beamed at him, stood on her tiptoes to kiss him once more, then scurried back into the house while he stood waiting tensely, starting at small noises. At last she reappeared with her carpet bag, dressed and cloaked, and he put up his hood, glancing warily around at the windows of the surrounding houses to be sure nobody had spotted them leaving. They trotted down to the corner and the waiting carriage, and as they climbed in, Killian said, "Take us to Richmond. And if anyone asks, you were nowhere near this house tonight." To assist the driver's decision, he tossed a guinea. "Understood?"

"Aye, sir." The driver cracked the reins over the horses' backs, and they rolled toward the western road, bracketed by hedgerows. Once they were sufficiently out of sight, he urged them to a gallop, and the coach creaked and shuddered on its axles, the lantern swinging on its spar as the flame guttered in the wind. Killian was rather warming to the clandestine nature of the whole thing, the romance of a secret midnight escape with his lover, and grinned at her, even knowing he'd have to be back before much longer or Liam would get suspicious (then again, he'd had at least three drinks; maybe it would have knocked him out). Milah smiled back, squeezing his hand, and he felt, just then, as if he would have made the choice a hundred times and a hundred more. Nothing was too far to go or too much to ask for the woman he loved.

They reached Richmond about three-quarters of an hour later, and Killian helped Milah down, leading her up the steps of a small lodging house; it was located on the grounds of an old but still consecrated church, and hence vampires would have a great deal of difficulty getting close to it. It would suit until he found a more permanent place for her, even as he wondered if he could actually take her on the ship. But with only a few moments, he knew what the answer was: no way in hell. Liam would have a fit and the rest of the crew would likely also object to having a woman aboard if only one man got the pleasure; besides, Milah had acquired plenty of street smarts from the rough life she'd lived, but she wasn't a sailor, and no need to make the Royal Navy furtherly pissed at them. Just a pipe dream, that, but still a sweet one.

That was how it went for the next fortnight. By day, Killian passed the time with Liam, writing letters to various persons of influence who might get the Privy Council moving, receiving offers from various solicitors to represent them, and trying his best to act nonchalant about the fact that every night, he was riding to Richmond to visit Milah, make plans for their new life, and, of course, pass much of the evening in more pleasurable ways. He hated keeping it from Liam, but nor was he suddenly going to turn about and order Milah to return to Lord Fitzmalcolm's custody, and riding down the river road tonight, the wind in his hair and the waxing moon bright as a lamp in the night sky, he was almost feeling hopeful. They would work this out, they had to. Li would be furious when he found out, true, but they had forgiven each other for everything before, and his elder brother would, with time, do it again. It was just their way.

Killian's optimism was strong enough that as he cantered in, dismounted, and tied his horse at the post, he at first didn't notice that anything at all was out of the ordinary. It was only as he was crossing the yard that he noticed the shards of broken glass in the mud, bright as diamonds, and the dark windows, when normally they glowed bright and welcoming. There were trampled tracks everywhere, the smell of smoke rising from somewhere that wasn't the chimney, and a cold finger of dread touched the nape of his neck, cutting through his giddy spirits. He frowned, breaking into a run, and barged into the house. "Milah? Milah!"

No answer. He vaulted up the stairs to the second floor, the boards thumping under his feet, and saw something – some _one –_ sprawled at the end of the hallway. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was the proprietress, one Mrs. Ingrid Andersen, unmoving. Looking at him. Looking _up_ at him, despite the fact that she was lying on her stomach. Her head had been twisted completely around, and a slow dark pool of blood was spreading beneath her.

Killian jerked back with a swallowed cry of revulsion, even as he was darting around her and pulling madly at the door to Milah's room. It wouldn't open, it was locked or barred or jammed or something of the sort, but he shoved at it until it broke, and he ran through. "Milah? Bloody hell, Milah, we have to get out of – "

He almost didn't see her at first. Then he did. She was standing on the far side of the room – not _standing,_ exactly, but forced against the wall in a strange, spread-eagled position, held there as if by invisible bonds, arms and legs yanked grotesquely awry. As Lord Robert Fitzmalcolm lifted his head, laid eyes on the intruder, and smiled. "Good evening, dearie. I supposed we'd be seeing you soon."

"Killian," Milah choked out, clearly fighting against the mesmer with every drop of her strength. "Killian, get out of here, Killian, _run – "_

"Not without you!" He fumbled for his sword, but Gold made a careless gesture, and it flew out of his hand, crashing blade-first into the wall and sending plaster chips flying. "Christ, you bastard, let her go, or I'll – "

"Or you'll what?" Gold asked, sounding bored. He was impeccably dressed in frock coat, lace cravat, breeches, and buckled shoes that gave him several extra inches of height (he being otherwise a gentleman of unremarkable stature) and a cane that he leaned on for effect, to put everyone off their guard and not expect him to be a vampire over two centuries old who could tear you apart like fine Chinese silk, in less than the blink of an eye. He likewise wore no wig, his greying-brown hair clubbed back in a severe queue, rings glittering on his fingers and fangs bared white and sharp as knives. His eyes were normally a cunning brown, but they had turned almost entirely black, a sign of the blood madness coming on, and the monster was barely veiled in the flesh of the man as he stood there triumphant, Milah pinned to the wall and Killian bare-handed, unable to reach her. "Oh, now. This _is_ a dilemma, isn't it?"

"Let – her – "

"You know," Gold said. "I almost might have. I have other drones who understand what a privilege it is to serve me, and who are far more loyal than this whore – how do you think I learned of your betrayal, after all? I might have been induced to spare her for the sake of our old good times. But then, well. . . I discovered that she left her son behind, without a backwards glance. That she was quite willing to leave Bae and run, and. . ." He hissed. "You know. I don't think I'm quite inclined to forgive that. Parents who abandon their children for their own selfish reasons. . . you and I would both agree, Lieutenant Jones, that there is no greater crime."

"What – how dare you – " Aye, his father had sold him into slavery – but Milah hadn't meant that, Bae was supposed to have a good life, a comfortable one – all the rationalizations, everything he'd come up with, everything he'd been willing to overlook because he loved her, because he wanted to have a real life, a home, settle down with her and Liam, bring her to live at the house they were supposed to buy in John Russell's new square, and now all that was –

"And so," Gold announced, "consider this an example for all the children left behind. Myself and you not least. Her first. Then you."

With that, even as Killian was diving desperately for his sword, knowing he couldn't move faster than a vampire, Gold turned into a blur, flashing forward, even as Milah screamed, a long, terrible sound of agony. Then she staggered, and Gold was holding her still-beating heart in his fist, hoisting it aloft like an executioner drawing and quartering a traitor at Tyburn for the amusement of the baying masses, blood running through his fingers and a ragged hole gaping raw in her chest, a crimson stain billowing down her corset and petticoats. She stared at him, then at Killian as her eyes began to glaze, as she went to her knees almost in slow motion, as he was crawling madly across the floor and caught her as she fell backwards into his arms. _"I love you,"_ she whispered, struggling to touch his cheek, but her hand trembled and gave out. He could feel the warmth of her blood soaking into him. She stared up at the ceiling, past it, let out a gasping breath, and died.

" _No!"_ Killian clutched her, shaking her, as if this might somehow wake her up, as if she could go on living even as Gold was crushing her heart with a horrendous wet, tearing rip, until it was nothing but a small ragged wad of muscle that he tossed aside like a used handkerchief. "Christ – no, what have you – no, _no – "_

"Oh, dearie. I'm just getting started." Gold's eyes were completely black, his fangs bared in an insane rictus of a smile, as he bent down, briskly pulled Killian away from Milah, and looked straight into his eyes, locking him into the power of the mesmer – something Killian had heard about only in passing, something that he knew Gold had often used on Milah, something she didn't like to talk about even with him. The next instant, he was pinned flat against the wall in that same terrible, unnatural position, head wrenched back to expose his neck, as the vampire advanced on him with slow, calculated coolness that was even worse than his preternatural speed. "Don't you want to live forever, Killian Jones?"

"You bastard – you can't – "

"Or," Gold said, "let me amend myself. Not _quite_ forever. I've been writing a book, you see. _Liber incarcerati._ It corrects the mistakes of the vampiric race as it presently exists, because, you see, there's this funny thing about power. As long as someone has just as much of it as you do, no matter how strong you are, you are no better than a common human. The book is called _Liber incarcerati,_ after all; Book of the Prisoner. Not _Liber incarceratorum,_ Book of the Prisoner _s._ Only one vampire can take all the power, only one vampire can transcend all the limits of our kind and become truly unstoppable, and that vampire is going to be me. But for the ritual to work, that vampire must sacrifice all their blood children, all the descendants of their line, every other vampire they've made, and you see, I don't have any of those yet. So you're the first. And when the time comes, you're going to die to give me everything I deserve. Myself and Baelfire. I'm going to adopt him as my own, and if I should ever die, the power will pass to him." Gold's eyes burned jet black. "I'm not going to fail him! I'm being a better father than yours or mine ever was! Everything that dead whore refused to give him, and you let her get away with it!"

Killian couldn't answer. Could only stare at him in blind, mad, dumb disbelief, Milah's body still sprawled on the floor, an island in a gently spreading sea of blood, as Gold closed in on him. He was conscious of trying to struggle, of fighting harder than he ever had in his life, but he wasn't moving an inch, and he could feel the mesmer boring into him like blades, tearing his head to shreds, closing around his heart in an iron vise. As Gold reached him and stroked his neck with a yellow-nailed hand, pressing his thumb into the artery until Killian saw white, as the vampire's fangs sank into him and bit down, and the world collapsed and faded into an endless nightmare of blackness, until all he could hear was the silence where the screaming had been, and felt his breathing stop, his heart cease, until he knew he was dying too now, and he did.

* * *

He had no idea how long it had been when his eyes fluttered open, when he stared at nothing, when he was barely even aware that he was any sort of coherent person or being, anything other than a riot of jagged edges, broken memories, and primal urges, the utter and overwhelming one of which was the desperate need to feed, to hunt, to drink and drink and drink – God, _God_ he was so thirsty, and yet nothing would stop it, slow it, slake it, not even when he crawled on hands and knees to a wet patch on the floor and lapped down the dirty water. Blood. He needed it. No idea how he knew it or why, just that it was the only thing that mattered in the world. He could hear it thundering in his veins, taunting him with its proximity, until he twisted and snapped like a wild beast on its tether in a vain attempt to get at it. At last, he bit into his own wrist instead, gulping down a few fevered swallows, until some shred of humanity and revulsion made him stop, retch, and gag, doubling over and gasping. He didn't know what was going on, what had happened, why he was here, where he even was, what had –

 _Milah._ The memory lanced through him, worse than the feeding frenzy, and it made him feel as if his spine had been snapped. Jumbled images were starting to take shape in the wilderness of his head, like the pieces of a broken plate, and he moaned. He was still in his filthy Navy uniform, cravat torn off and buttons missing, jacket and waistcoat stained with her blood now drying to brown, hair tumbling loose from its ribbon, sword gone, kept here like a beast in filth, he needed to get out, he needed – he _needed –_

Just then, there was a rattling at the door, a bar thunked back, and Killian looked up wildly, praying in mad vain for rescue – until a torch burned his eyes, he whimpered and fell back, and stared up at Robert Fitzmalcolm, who in turn was staring back at him with barely concealed delight. "Well, well, well, dearie," he said. "Not feeling well, are you? The first day of your afterlife is always a bit rough. Here."

With that, he tossed a raw slab of meat to the grimy floor, and Killian – hating himself, desperate not to, but completely enslaved to the impulse that pushed him forward to snatch it, to suck the blood from it – felt it running down his chin, tasting copper in his mouth, still too thin and weak to truly succor him, trying to stagger to his feet to attack Gold but collapsing back with a crash. The vampire regarded him with bored nonchalance, then said, "Oh, and one other small matter of business. Come with me."

Killian didn't want to, couldn't, but Gold had hold of his arm and jerked him upright, marching him down a narrow dark hall to some sort of room at the back. His malfunctioning eyes weren't focusing, no matter how much he blinked, clouded with pain and hunger, seeing things in different colors and angles, sharper and stranger – why could he hear so well, almost taste the air, something was wrong, something was –

But then he caught sight of the other figure in the room, and his heart stopped (yet at that moment he realized he couldn't feel it beating at all). He could only stare, desperate and undone, until he whispered, "Li?"

"Bloody hell!" Captain Liam Jones whirled around, saw him and the wretched state he was in, and rushed forward as Gold negligently let go; if he hadn't caught Killian in time, he would have sprawled facefirst on the stones. "Killian – Christ, what _happened –_ I told you not to! Christ! _I told you not to!"_

Killian felt a strange, sharp sensation like a sting both times Liam uttered "Christ," but didn't care, didn't think of it, burying his face in Liam's shoulder as his brother half-dragged, half-carried him toward the door. He was shaking and he wanted to die and he wanted to run, run faster than he ever had, was almost unable to stop his terrible, overpowering urge to sink his teeth into Liam's throat and drain him dry. "Li – I'm sorry – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you were right, I didn't – I never – "

Gold cleared his throat. "You know," he said mildly. "Captain, I never said you were leaving."

Liam stopped. "And why is that?"

"Because it's almost sunrise, and if you walk outside with that wastrel you call your brother now, a new vampire who hasn't fed, he'll turn into dust." Gold shrugged. "Of course, this wouldn't be much of a loss, but he's going to be quite important in my future plans, and I can't let you do that. Besides, I have a rather more vital demonstration for him."

Killian felt Liam tense all over, as a towering silence stretched out, until it grew greater and greater and seemed as if it would never end. Then, slowly, Liam turned on the spot, facing down Robert Fitzmalcolm. "You, sir," he said, clearly and precisely, "can go to hell."

Gold giggled. "Oh, dearie, I've already been there. Ghastly place, really. Not much to recommend it. But I'm sure you'll have a chance to examine it for yourself. Unless, of course, your _wittle bwuver_ can save you?"

"What the – "

In half an instant, Gold had flashed across the room to them, pulled Killian away, and threw him against the wall on the far side, then pulled out a cuff and fastened it around his wrist. The touch of the metal was burning, scathing, biting through him to the bone, and Killian howled, trying to yank free, but to no avail. Gold's smile was more manic than ever as he said, "Feel that? That's silver, and I can promise, you _don't_ get along well with it now. But you're a vampire. Strength, speed, immortality, great powers, such an improvement on your previous state. All you have to do is get out of the silver shackle and save your brother. So easy, isn't it? Child's play."

"What – you – " Killian twisted and struggled, but the silver was weakening him, fuddling him, and he was so very, very hungry, and so weak, and so terrified. "No – please – let him go, _let him go,_ he isn't part of this, he can't hurt – "

"Oh," Gold said. "But he could. Now he's part of my bloodline since I turned you, and as such, I need to get rid of him. That's how the ritual works, remember? All the blood children. All the descendants of the line. Human or vampire, it doesn't matter. And I also need to teach you the small fact that werewolves are monsters and cannot be dealt with, except in one way. Just remember, you can make it stop. Just get free and save him."

With that, he turned around, crossed the room to a barred door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. Killian smelled something wild, saw shadows stretch out in the torchlight, heard growling and slavering and the click of claws on stone, as half a dozen massive wolves emerged, ears laid back and teeth bared, closing in on Liam as he swore and reached for his sword. They circled him, drawing in tighter and tighter – as Killian nearly dislocated his shoulder rattling madly at the cuff, gasping and sobbing, but the more he struggled, the more the poisonous touch of silver bit into him – and then, all at once, they leapt.

Liam yelled, slashing madly at the first one and managing to knock it away, but a second one plowed into his sword-arm, and the blade skittered across the floor. He was still fighting, punching every inch of them he could reach, as the other four piled onto him and dragged him down, as he clawed madly for his sword but couldn't get to it. The wolves tore into him like a rag doll, ripping and snarling, as blood splashed violent red on the stone and Killian was screaming, screaming, screaming. _"STOP! BLOODY HELL! ANYTHING! ANYTHING – STOP, GOD ALMIGHTY – STOP!"_

"Can't get yourself free, dearie?" Gold smirked. "You know, perhaps I'll be merciful after all. Say you never loved Milah. Say she was just a useless whore who abandoned her son, soiled and unfaithful and cheap, and I'll call them off. Say it. Go on."

Killian bent over, retching, half-unconscious, only able to see his brother, his captain, prone beneath the wolves, as they drew back and Liam uttered a few short, gasping noises of impossible pain, still alive but barely. "Killian," he groaned. "Get out. . . leave me. . . go. . ."

 _No._ He couldn't, his brain had locked up, he wouldn't say the words, he never would – but he couldn't get free, he was frozen, he could only watch as these monsters destroyed the last vestige of his human life, Liam – no, he couldn't, not Liam, never –

"Milah was a useless whore," Killian gritted out, tears burning in his eyes, struggling to hold onto himself, furious at his need to taste the blood splashed on the stones, as if it was the only desire he had space for inside him. "Who abandoned. Her son. Soiled. Unfaithful. Ch-cheap. I – never – loved – her."

"Well then," Gold said. "Surely you won't be mourning her death. And you're learning right now that what you'll _really_ want to do for the next hundred years or so is kill every werewolf you can get your hands on. You know, it appears Cutler Beckett will receive that promotion to fleet commander after all. The pirates of the Caribbean must be trembling in fear." With that, he turned to the wolves and said, "Finish him."

" _NO!"_ It made no difference. Killian was locked, frozen, drowning, burning and freezing all at once, and the darkness was coming for him, the madness, the rage. Until he could feel it scouring out every fraction of humanity left in him, every small piece of life, every old merciful impulse, every hope for the future, every dream of better days, every scrap of anything except death and vengeance, as he could hear Liam screaming, _screaming –_

And then it cut off in a gurgle, and he was not.


	11. Chapter 11

"My dear friends," Arthur said, looking very much like a father about to give his children a talking–to in the car after picking them up from detention at school. "With the present climate as delicate as it is, and the disruptions that would inevitably ensue if you attempted to meddle within the territory of another sovereign vampire ruler, and the blame that would likewise end up falling on us, I cannot possibly think it wise to recommend that you travel to New York for any reason. If the werewolves are attacking it, that is, quite frankly, out of my jurisdiction, and perhaps is only to be expected from beasts of that sor – "

"I'm not quite sure you understand." Emma kept her tone as light and pleasant as possible. "I'm not asking for your permission, Potentate. I'm just informing you that we're going."

"Oh?" Arthur's disappointed–father expression jacked up by several notches. "True, I do not have the substantive power to forbid you, but surely you _would_ have to seek authorization from your queen, and I can't imagine Regina would be in any haste to grant it either. If she did, it would show such a profound lack of political judgment that I could surely never in good conscience endorse her for a seat on the witan. I don't doubt she knows that." He took a sip of blood and spread his hands, looking wounded. "Besides, what would have come up in New York that you must attend to so hastily anyway, when so much remains to occupy us here in Boston?"

Emma and Killian exchanged a guarded look. There was no way they were going to tell Arthur about what they had discovered in regards to _Liber incarcerati_ and how very much they needed to get their hands on the Columbia University copy before something spectacularly horrible happened, if they weren't too late already, and they weren't even sure it was wise to mention that Emma thought she'd run into Naomi sniffing around Special Collections at Harvard. The trouble was, they had already walked into his spider's web, and extracting themselves would be the same as for any other helpless insect entangled in its silky, sticky threads. As well, he had cleverly undermined one of the main resources Emma had been counting on by appropriating Regina; as long as he had her under his thumb with that glittering promise of a witan seat, Regina was going to take his side. That left. . . pretty much nobody in Boston they could trust, outside of each other and Henry. And considering the scale and the power of the enemies they were still only beginning to discover massed against them, that felt impossibly small and scanty.

"And," Arthur said, following her train of thought with unnerving ease, "surely you wouldn't want to take a human into the middle of what could be a quite fine supernatural mess. I've already had to rescue him from werewolves once, after all. I don't want to have to do it again. Surely even if you went, I should keep Henry here, for safety?"

Emma couldn't help shooting a quick glance at Henry's bedroom door. Despite being in close company with vampires for the past several days, he had not quite converted to a nocturnal schedule, and so was asleep, as most ordinary people were at 2:45 AM. It was true that if all three of them went to New York, that left nobody to keep an eye on what was going on here, but no way she was leaving him as a hostage for Arthur, especially when Henry was key to getting them into Columbia in the first place. "With respect, Potentate," she said levelly, "that's not your decision to make either."

Arthur flushed, eyes taking on a distinct tinge of black, with that too–stillness that sometimes came over a vampire instants before they attacked, where they did not disturb a single molecule of air until they exploded into deadly force. "Well then, Miss Swan," he said, the fatherly tone no longer disappointed but openly angry, "what would you say _is?"_

Emma hesitated, even as she felt Killian edge incrementally forward at that same pique of tension, ready to release in an instant if Arthur showed any signs of going after her. "I'm not trying to pick a fight, sir. Remember, we're all on the same side, aren't we? All wanting this mystery solved and the culprits caught? Perhaps these werewolves are connected to the ones who kidnapped Henry. If so, if we stop them, everyone would see how heroic you were in going after them single–handedly."

As she had hoped, that stroked Arthur's ego enough for some of the threatening posture to recede, and he smiled. "That is true, I suppose. And it might be wise to get you out of Boston for a spell – if you are still in any danger, of course. Very well." He waved a hand magnanimously. "I'll tell Regina to authorize your departure. We all wish you the very best of luck."

Emma and Killian tried not to look too surprised, especially as both of them could sense the most likely reason for Arthur's volte–face: the fact that getting them safely out of the way of any interference gave him time to erect whatever plans for Boston, cement his control over Regina, convince the coven already impressed by his daring rescue of Henry that he was their great savior, and otherwise line up the dominoes according to whatever sinister motive he had in mind. Not to mention the fact that three people, two vampires and one human, arriving uninvited in a city under werewolf attack, ruled by a queen as dangerous and unpredictable as Cruella, had an excellent chance of never coming back. _He won't even have to get his hands dirty._ _We need to do this fast, or he'll get exactly what he wants._

With that, there was the problem of talking strategy. She didn't want to do it in any room of Arthur's damn hotel suite; he had vampire hearing, he could just eavesdrop on them from across the hall. Nor would the hotel bar be an entirely smart option, as Arthur had probably paid them all enough to narc if they overheard anyone planning activities to his detriment. Her apartment wasn't safe, and finally the only thing she could think of was Henry's house. Still not optimal, but nothing was right now. So she slipped into his room, shook him until he stirred, and whispered, "Hey, I'm so sorry, but I need you to invite me and Killian into your house. We're going to New York after all, and we need a place to talk about it."

Henry looked at her peevishly, as if unsure what waking him up at 3 AM had to do with this, and yawned until his jaw cracked. "Fine, I invite you into my house. Can I go back to sleep now?"

"Yes. We'll be back by sunrise. Sorry." Emma had learned that invitations could work on a time delay, as she had invited Killian into her apartment in Heathrow and it had been successful to get him in when they arrived in Boston, and she wondered just how long the statute of limitations was. Probably not more than a day or so, as otherwise the invitation protocol would be useless as a means of protection, and she wondered suddenly if that was one of the safeguards which _Liber incarcerati_ intended to break. Almost surely, it being one of the biggest disadvantages for vampires. Was her apartment proof of a successful trial, if they'd disenchanted it by means of the stolen Harvard copy? Zelena had said she was working with Naomi, and Naomi was clearly the one who had stolen it in the first place. If they'd gotten that much down already. . .

Emma glanced back down at Henry, who had already dropped under again, the moonlight catching one of those stray silver threads in his hair. She felt an overpowering ache to kiss his forehead, as any mother would on seeing her sleeping child, and that old fear that she would never be enough, never able to protect him from the monsters under the bed or that sat in the living room or that were lurking in the shadows, how ineffective she had been at combating what was even almost certainly a staged kidnapping. _I can't. I can't do this. I can't._

Nevertheless, she knuckled her hand roughly across her eyes, slipped out, and beckoned Killian after her, as they rode the elevator down, exited the hotel, and decided to run to Cambridge. The night was actually clear, if cold and wet, and the stars sparkled with chilly majesty overhead, the moon laying a silver track to the horizon. It felt good to be running with someone at her side, after all the times she'd done this alone – after just a few nights ago in Salem Wood, hunting down Aurora, how she'd loved the sensation but hated what it was for. It seared through her, clean and fresh and raw, until by the time they turned into Henry's quiet neighborhood and cautiously approached his house, she almost was reluctant that they'd arrived so quickly and it had to end. But they went up the steps, pushed the door open, and cautiously tried crossing the threshold. There was still some sort of resistance, but it worked.

Emma let out a breath, closed the door behind her, and led them into the kitchen, still sporting its impressive scars from the kidnappers. They sat down at the table, eyeing each other awkwardly, until Emma said, "Do you think Will would have learned anything about the Old Ones registry and who's been messing with it just yet?"

"Possibly," Killian said. "I did tell him it was urgent. Suppose we'll have to call him."

He got up, retrieved Henry's cordless, and punched in a British number, hitting the button for speakerphone, and they both waited tensely as it rang; it was just past eight AM in London, and since werewolves could keep daylight or nighttime hours as they chose, it was hard to predict if Will would be awake or just going to sleep. But it was picked up on the second–to–last ring, and a grumpy voice said, "If you're one of those twits sellin' double–glazed windows, I don't want it."

"Good morning to you too, Scarlet." Killian raised an eyebrow. "We wake you?"

"If I say yes, do you hang up and call back tomorrow?"

"No."

"Fraid of that."

"Sorry, love, you can get your beauty sleep later. You have anything to report?"

"Yeah," Will said. "I was havin' a dream that I was being chased by a bear through Yorkshire Sculpture Park. Except the bear was my old maths teacher, and I didn't have on any pants. It was awful."

Killian rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Do you have anything _else_ to report?"

"I mean, you ever been to Yorkshire Sculpture Park? It's a dodgy place."

"Will!"

"Sorry. Can't help it I'm not me charming self when you wake me up from dreams of maths–teachin' bears chasing my bare arse through modern art. Right, the Old Ones registry." Will yawned. "Hard to make much sense of it, and I was afraid they were goin' to catch me and chop my head off, so I didn't have much time. But far as I can tell, there's someone named Gwen or Genna or something like that who's been supervisin' it. Couldn't read the signature exactly. Mean anything to you?"

Emma and Killian frowned at each other at the introduction of yet another unfamiliar player to the mystery. "Do you know if she's an Old One herself?"

"Probably?" Will yawned again. "I mean, nobody else would be able to handle the registry on a consistent basis without raisin' suspicion. Only listing I could find that might be her was for a Guinevere. But it said she died a long–arse time ago. 1800s."

At that, Killian froze. "Guinevere?" he repeated. "As in Queen Guinevere, wife of King Arthur in all the legends? She existed, I can tell you that much. And we've already discovered that the registry is, to say the least, far from punctiliously correct. Bloody hell, is the whole thing lying? Might be, if Guinevere's fiddling with it under Arthur's orders."

"Does that mean other Old Ones could be still be alive too?" Emma said carefully. "Even if they're listed as dead?"

Killian's eyes met hers with a brief, furious flash, and she regretted her words instantly. He got up out of his chair, pacing back and forth across the kitchen in quick–time, rubbing his hands through his hair until it stood up in wild black whirls. "Killian?" Will's voice said through the receiver; he clearly knew him well enough to predict exactly what was happening. "Bloody hell, mate, she was just thinkin' out loud. But if a not–dead Old One, wife of the vampire potentate, is messin' with the entire registry. . . Jesus, what'd you get yourselves _into?"_

"I don't know," Killian snapped. "Though it does quite confirm our working hypothesis that Arthur is up to no good, so there's that. Still doesn't explain what he's ultimately doing with it, though. And why he'd single out me to frame."

"He's a giant penis in a suit," Will said. "He need any other reason?"

"Thank you for that picturesque description, Scarlet, but somehow I doubt that was why. But if it was intended to make _me_ look as if I was up to the Harvard attacks, and Zelena copped to those with this bloody Naomi person – who we still have no clue who she might be, so there's that – and it was done on Arthur's orders – "

"Wait," Will said. "What'd you say? Naomi?"

"Yes. Why? You encounter someone else not dead by that name?"

"Not quite." Will sounded uncharacteristically tentative. "Just for a moment, thought you said Nimue."

"Who?"

"Nimue. Bloody hell, love, you're the vampire _and_ the Old One, why am I the one who has to explain this to you? She's the reason there _is_ a registry in the first place. The first Old One there ever was, the sorceress who it was said bewitched Merlin and destroyed Camelot. Reason our friend Arthur is now out of a job and stuck makin' life difficult for everyone else. Course, she was supposed to be dead a long time ago as well, but as I said, the reason the supernatural world has the bloody Old One registry now is because of everything she did. They had to keep track of 'em, or risk that same kind of demon bein' unleashed and no way to stop them."

"Wait," Emma said, leaning forward and gripping the table until she heard it creak. "When was this Nimue person supposed to have died?"

Will hesitated. "1500," he said. "Why?"

"Fuck!" Killian burned to his feet again and hurled some item of crockery at the wall, hard enough that it exploded into a thousand tiny shards. "Bloody hell, if this is some mad plot they've all dreamed up. . . if they're using that damned thing, if they're – if _he's –_ "

"Hey! Hey!" Before he could cause further damage to Henry's kitchenware, or something less replaceable, Emma leapt up and grabbed him, holding his arms hard, as he was still trembling like a spooked horse. "This doesn't mean that he – that Gold is back. Listen to me. You killed him. Regina said it took him a long time to die. He's dead, it's all right. Look at me. It's fine."

"Oy," Will's voice said from the phone. "Killian, love. She's right. Probably just some sort of weird coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences where he's concerned." Killian brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, which were still almost completely black, and Emma wondered if all that Old One blood was having a detrimental effect on him and his ability to control his temper, as she'd briefly been concerned about. "It seems apparent that Zelena and Arthur both want _Liber incarcerati,_ and that they're most likely working together to get it, but both of them are likely intending to betray the other at the eleventh hour and take it for themselves. And if so. . ."

He paused, then looked up at Emma again, face grim and cold. "The ritual, at least according to Gold, to make a vampire all–powerful requires sacrificing their entire line of descent. All the vampires they've made, and all those related by blood to them. If that's what Zelena is after, she's planning to kill you, Lily Page, and Henry. There must be other parts of it as well, I don't know, and it may be that Zelena isn't old enough to pull it off successfully. But if Naomi is somehow Nimue, then for her to wipe out her entire bloodline. . ."

"It would be something close to half the vampires ever made." Emma felt faint. "If she was the first Old One, then she's like a vampire Eve. We already were talking about how Pelagius, the heretic, was definitely colleagues with Arthur. And Pelagius was Gold's vampire grandfather through that Zosimus guy. So. . . do you think she was the one who turned Pelagius?"

"If that's the case," Killian said, "we're _all_ her bloodline. Arthur, Gold, Regina, Zelena, me, you, and Lily, just for a start – not forgetting Henry, because he's your son. We'd all have to die. Then everyone we've fed on, then any drones, then any left–over distant relations – anyone we shared any kind of blood with. And when you're talking about a lineage that stretches over fifteen hundred years, the casualties would be. . ."

"Catastrophic." Emma spoke far more coolly than she felt. "She couldn't actually do it, could she?" Putting hope in the fact that even a mass murderer might be faced with too many people to track down and kill was a ridiculously slender one, and history proved over and over that it was a stupid idea. "There's no way she could identify them all. Surely not."

"Do you think that would stop her trying?" Killian looked bleak. "If Naomi isn't Nimue, this is all moot. If she is. . ."

"I'd invest in a nice life insurance policy and a custom headstone," Will said, with ghoulish cheer. "Definitely one o' those coffins you vamps liked to kip in. Because you'll definitely be dead, is what he's trying to say. More than you already are, that is."

"I can't hear you, Scarlet. I've gone temporarily deaf."

"Sounds like a personal problem." Will paused. "Don't do anything stupid. It sounds dangerous enough already. I'll keep looking, see if I turn anything up. That all?"

"Aye. We can let you get back to the bears in the sculpture park now." Killian spoke lightly enough, but there was a dark cloud over his face. "We'll be in touch."

"Counting on it, Jones." The call clicked off.

There were another heavy few moments of silence, until Killian shook himself and looked up at Emma with a forced smile. "Well, best to know exactly what we're dealing with, eh, lass? And we also have to plan how to get to New York. I can stay awake again if I have to, how worse can I realistically feel at this point? Henry can drive, likely, and we can manage you during daylight hours again, until we – "

"No," Emma said. "I don't want to be out again. I'll take a booster shot."

"You don't have to do that. They're bloody dreadful."

"I know. But it doesn't matter. I don't want you and Henry saddled with hauling my unconscious ass around again, especially since time is going to be at such a premium. We can't afford to sit around waiting for me to wake up. Besides, if we don't catch these people in time, we're all going to die anyway, so what difference does it make?"

Killian considered, then smiled grimly. "There's an unfortunate sort of logic in that, I suppose. If we get back and pick up Henry, we can leave as soon as it's light. And – "

"Hold on," Emma said. "Are you all right?"

"What? Aye, of course. Fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because. . ." She searched for the words, any way to tell him that while she couldn't possibly understand the magnitude of what was going through his head and his terrible fear that Gold might not be quite dead after all, she wanted to help him with it, in whatever stunted, tentative way she could. "Killian," she said after a moment. "You don't have to pretend with me."

He looked at her intently, until she almost wanted to turn away but for once, didn't let herself. Then he said, "In a week or so, I've gone from barely leaving my house or doing anything or having any belief or interest in life for a century, to being swept up in some bloody murder mystery, coming to a different country, reuniting with my sister, facing the worst nightmares of my past, and meeting you and your lad, as we're now on our way to try to save half the supernatural world from death or worse, while we can't trust anyone around us. I think it's fair to say I'm a bit off my footing."

"Well, when you put it like that. . ." Emma said wryly. "But, well. Thank you. I know this isn't easy."

He tried to smile at her again, but his eyes were too drowned with grief to let the sun shine through. They were standing quite close together, had somehow arrived in this position without her noticing, as if it was the most normal and natural thing for them to be drawn together, in the grip of some elemental force far greater than even them, immortals and supernaturals with close to four hundred combined years of life. His hand was hovering by her arm, not quite touching, but she was well aware that she wanted him to. Wanted it very much, to close the circuit even as the electricity crackled almost tangibly in the air. Out of curiosity. Just to see how it would feel. She had never even kissed another vampire before, far less anything else.

"We – we should," she said faintly, still looking at his mouth. "We should get back."

"Oh. Yes." Killian blinked hard, visibly trying to pull himself together. It was a strange, selfless kind of bravery, as he was doing his best to put on a brave face for her when the jumbled pieces of his shattered soul were so very visible just beneath the skin, put back into place but never healed. Until she could almost have traced the cracks with her fingers, wished more than anything she knew how to knit them whole again. "Yes, we should."

Still the silence stretched between them, almost a living thing. She was so close, so close that it terrified her, to bridging that final space. Their noses were almost brushing, lips following each other's, as she sucked in a breath she didn't need out of old habit, his hand floating up as if to take her by the back of the neck and pull her into the kiss –

Then Henry's neighbor's car alarm went off, rather spoiling the mood, and Emma stepped back hastily, flushed and flustered and licking her lips as she tried to sort out how to get her feet to work. She turned and hurried out of the kitchen, hearing him following after a moment, steps slower and heavier, as they left Henry's house, made sure the front door was locked (not that it would seriously deter any more immortals bent on mischief) and started to run.

There was a definite edge of pink on the eastern horizon by the time they returned to the hotel, Emma with several newly purchased booster shots in a drugstore bag; she knew it was not advisable to use them more than one absolutely had to, but this was an emergency. As for his own preparations, once they reached the suite and Killian saw that the decanter was still temptingly half–full, he poured himself another glass. Yet as he was lifting it to his lips, Emma put out a hand. "Are you – are you sure that's the best idea?"

"It's far preferable to that ghastly ONeg stuff of yours. No offense."

"Yes, but. . ." Emma glanced around for Arthur, but he appeared to have retreated to his bedroom. "It's Old One blood, we've found out that he's potentially up to all kinds of mischief with them – the registry, at least – and I think it's having an. . . effect on you. If you want some actual blood, you. . ." She swallowed. "You can have some off me."

Killian looked taken aback. "I couldn't – "

Emma shrugged self–consciously. "You let me feed off you after the mess at the London Eye. Just call it returning the favor."

Killian hesitated, but after a moment, set the glass down. He reached for her hand, clearly intending to feed from the wrist as was the usual and less intimate way, then stopped. "No, you're about to take a daylight shot, you'll need your strength. I couldn't – "

Emma reached for the glass and took a few swallows. It was still the most delicious stuff she had ever tasted, though she knew it was dangerous, and she was more willing to expose herself to the effects than Killian. "There," she said hoarsely. "That should tide me over for the time being. Now hurry up, it's going to be dawn soon."

He paused once more, still looking conflicted, as he reached for her hand again, but at the last second, she pulled it back and offered her neck instead. For obvious reasons, this kind of feeding was only done between vampires who trusted each other, or a drone that they had a particularly close (usually intimate) relationship with, and she almost changed her mind, but jerked her chin at him stubbornly. "I said, hurry up."

Killian looked briefly poleaxed, then clearly decided it was nothing more than a statement that she finally believed in him to have her back in this, stepped forward, and put his hands on her waist. His dark head moved to the hollow of her throat, and her breath stuttered as she felt the brief, bright pierce of his fangs, followed at once by a surge of intense pleasure. A contented little moan passed her lips involuntarily, her hand coming up to caress his hair, her back arching as she swayed into his firm grip, knees turning watery. He was as careful with her as if she was made from fine porcelain, knowing that it would be different and strange to have an unfamiliar vampire feeding from the neck for the first time, but she wrapped her arms around his neck, eyelashes fluttering as waves of warmth spread through her. She had to admit, going back to her boring daily glass of ONeg sounded like a considerable sacrifice, not when there was this, something she had never known about, a dimension of a vampire's life she had never experienced or even wanted to. But instead –

They were still completely wrapped up in each other, Killian taking his time about lightly sucking a few drops instead of helping himself to a few deep gulps and being done with it, when they heard an awkward cough from the doorway. "Excuse me, your room is that way."

Emma twisted her head to the side Killian wasn't using and felt her face heat as she beheld Henry, awake and dressed but clearly in desperate hunt for coffee. "Just a. . ." Her mouth wasn't working right. "Just a sec. We're. . . he's just. . ." She felt Killian about to pull away, and put her hand on his head, keeping him in place. "One minute, okay?"

Henry, clearly thinking that even if he had been attempting to set his mother up, he didn't need to see what looked like her getting to second base with the guy, smartly retreated and shut the door, and Killian hastily finished up and withdrew, licking closed the fang punctures with wordless tenderness. Emma shuddered, still enveloped in something close to orgasmic, dreamy haze, until she finally managed to sort herself apart from him and go get the booster shot; she could feel the sun coming on strong, she had been cutting it a bit close anyway, but hadn't wanted it to end. She prepared it, gritted her teeth, and injected, bracing for the whiplash from pleasure to misery. That was just going to be the way the cookie crumbled, apparently.

Henry, having been assured that it was safe to reemerge and his eyes would not be burned, did so. He went to the expensive coffeemaker and punched a button to start it up, then turned to glance at them with a faint smirk. "So, strategy settled?"

"Yes," Killian said, coughing. "We'll leave as soon as you're ready. All right there, love?"

"Fine," Emma groaned, wincing as she felt the shot starting to take effect like one giant menstrual cramp. (One benefit of her undead state was that she didn't have to deal with those any more.) God, she hated this stuff, but seeing as the alternative was worse, she would just have to take it on the chin for now. They really couldn't waste any more time. Arthur might have figured out that they were going to New York to retrieve the copy of the _Liber_ , and ordered his thugs to lie in wait. Or he just figured that they were probably going to get themselves killed anyway, and didn't see any reason to expend extra effort in arranging it. It was a dismal commentary on the state of their situation that this was the hopeful option.

They were southbound on I–95 by the time it was fully light, Henry driving, Killian in the passenger seat, and Emma in the back, trying to fight off the nausea long enough to appreciate the fact that it was the first real day she'd seen in years. The sky was blue, streaked with cirrus clouds, and the Northeast was emerging from its winter hibernation and starting to resemble a real world again instead of a desolate snowbound hellscape. The drive was normally about four and a half hours, assuming traffic wasn't the worst, but Henry stayed in the left lane at an average of eighty miles an hour, relentlessly overtaking the looky–loos and senior citizens obstructing it, and the skyscrapers of midtown were visible on the horizon by noon. Then the going did slow considerably as they inched through midday rush (then again, in Manhattan, every hour of the day was rush) and headed uptown to Morningside Heights. Henry voiced the opinion that they should have left the damn car in Connecticut and taken the Metro–North in, but as they wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if needed, and public transit was not ideal for this option, driving it was. Even if they were surrounded by an armada of yellow cabs that hit their horns if Henry blinked at the wrong moment, in blithe disregard of the "No Honking" signs posted up on the neighborhood streets. The fourth time this happened, Killian flipped the bird at the offender on Henry's behalf, and Emma tactfully pretended not to notice.

They reached Columbia just before one PM, circled the block three times in search of a parking space, and finally found one down by Riverside Park. They got out, climbed the steep street back to Broadway, waited as Henry made a supply run to the nearest of New York City's two hundred and eighty–three Starbucks locations, then strolled onto the university campus. Henry was looking around nostalgically, as this after all was where he had done his Ph.D, and Emma was gripped by a brief fantasy that she and Killian were here to visit him for family day, that they were doing the sort of ordinary thing she had missed in his childhood and adolescence and early adulthood alike, and had to briefly stop and gather herself as the boys were looking at her curiously. "No, it's fine. It's just – I didn't think I'd ever have this."

Henry's expression softened, mouth tugging into that crooked grin that still sometimes made her miss Neal. "Do you want the grand tour? Not really time for it, though."

"Later." Emma mustered up a smile in return as they crossed the broad plaza toward Butler Library. "Let's do what we're here for first."

They went up the steps and presented themselves inside, whereas Henry, as a Columbia alumni and current Harvard professor, was swiftly able to pull the correct strings to secure them admittance to the rare book and manuscript division on the sixth floor. Emma and Killian were posing as his graduate students, at which they had to cheat and use a bit of mesmer since neither of them had university ID cards, but were shortly issued visitors' badges anyway. Then, the moment of truth. Henry filled out a request slip for _Liber incarcerati,_ and the three of them watched tensely as the student assistant vanished into the stacks in search of it.

Half expecting it either to be missing as well or for something terrible to happen before they could consult it, they were instead communally flabbergasted when the assistant returned with it, directed them to the reading room, and had Henry sign it out. They gathered around, feeling as if they were about to open the world's worst birthday present, as Henry carefully propped it on its foam supports, lifted off the protective laminate leaf, and they regarded the title page in wary apprehension, as if it was going to come to life and attack them. It smelled like old paper and ink and must, and a faint, underlying coppery tang that might have been blood.

"Well," Henry whispered. "Now what?"

Emma looked at Killian. Of the three of them, he was the most likely to have the faintest clue where to start, or what otherwise to do now that they had actually gotten their hands on it, but the problem was, they couldn't just send it back to the archives once they were done with it, waiting to be snatched up by whoever else was in search of it. Which put them in the awkward position of either having to steal it themselves, or hide in here somehow to keep an eye on it, or walk around with it casually, which was clearly not going to work. Besides, it was plain that laying eyes on it had given Killian an unpleasant lurch of memory, and he looked away, swallowing hard. Clearly, if it was up to him, they would have stuffed the damn thing down the nearest furnace and never returned, but that was not an option. Visibly bracing himself to touch it, he flipped the page to the table of contents, ran his finger down the list, then stopped at the heading marked simply _Ritus._ "Try that."

Henry carefully turned the fragile leafs of the manuscript to the indicated section, whereupon they were greeted by a gruesome woodcut of a buck–fanged vampire bodily dismembering some rather alarmed individuals. They winced, but got on with the program, as Henry puzzled through the elaborate script and asked Killian things in an undertone, copying down a few words here and there. When he was finished, he sat back and said, "Hmm."

"Hmm what?"

"My Latin's pretty rusty, but I think it was talking about the existence of one particular vampire you need to make this all work. The _universus._ A person who can alter what it means to be a supernatural somehow. If you don't have them, you can sacrifice your bloodline all you want, but it'll just make you a crazy person who killed your family instead of the most powerful vampire alive. They're the key to it." He frowned. "Well, that's semi–encouraging. They still need to find this shadowy prophecy person before they can really start in with the murder spree."

"Actually, not that encouraging," Killian said dryly. "Can you tell anything else? How did Gold know there would be someone like this? Maybe they're dead, and there's no chance of this whole bloody thing working at all, but that would be far too much to hope for."

Henry squinted at the page again. "Not sure. He's just rambling about letting things come in the fullness of time, and to not be deceived by appearances, and similar mumbo–jumbo. Man, this reads like someone drunk–translated _Finnegan's Wake_ into Latin. I'm getting a headache."

Killian tensed. "What do you mean, not be deceived by appearances?"

"I honestly can't say. Like I said, it's a screed. But one thing is making me wonder. If this was supposed to be Gold's private manual for taking over the world, how come there are three copies of it at all? Why risk more people learning how to do this? Unless it's some kind of riddle, where there are parts of the ritual contained in each manuscript and you have to bring all three of them together to know the answer, but that seems needlessly complicated."

"Contingency plan?" Killian suggested. "Manuscripts do burn. The Cotton Library fire in 1731 was quite a disaster in my day. We nearly lost the only surviving copy of _Beowulf_ because of it."

"Maybe? It still feels like there's something we might be missing, though." Henry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Almost like it's possible that Gold wrote two copies with fake instructions, and one copy with the real instructions. He planted the other two to throw his rivals off the scent, but if they tried the ritual, it wouldn't work. They'd just. . . I don't know, die. Or something even more terrible."

Killian frowned. "That does sound like something he'd do," he said after a moment. "In which case, of course, there's no way to know which is the real one, is there?"

"Not unless we had all three and went through them line by line to check for discrepancies, and that would take years." Frustrated, Henry hit the table with his fist, making the manuscript bounce on its foam wedges, and he hastily steadied it before a wrathful librarian could materialize to eject him. "This just keeps getting stranger and more convoluted, doesn't it?"

"That's the understatement of the year," Emma muttered. "So we can't even be sure it does us any good to look at this one, or that it's the same as the one Zelena and Naomi are following, or anything?"

"Afraid not." Henry sighed, putting his glasses back on. "It's better than nothing, but still. So what do we do now? We can't exactly check this out, but it's even stupider to put it back."

"One of us will have to stay and guard it," Emma said, running a hand over her face. "At least for tonight. We can make sure they don't notice us."

"Meaning you or Killian?" Henry cracked his neck back and forth and assumed an expression of immense satisfaction. "Yeah, I'm a human, I'd definitely be noticed. Not to mention, kind of crap in a fight against a supernatural."

"I'll do it," Killian said. "You should get some sleep."

Emma smiled softly. "I'll be all right, I promise. I'll do it."

"You're sure, love?"

"I'll be fine. Honestly, I could use a bit of a breather. Just – keep an eye on Henry for me, okay? There are still werewolves attacking people around here, after all."

"Aye, then." Killian stood up, not without one quick look back at her, and gestured to Henry. "Well then, lad. Suppose you show me where the cool kids hang out?"

"I wouldn't know," Henry said wryly. "Seeing as I've always been a massive nerd. But yeah, we can find a place to stay that isn't too much of a dive, hopefully. Spend the night doing research, see if we can sort anything out. We'll be back for you as soon as the library opens tomorrow morning, okay, Mom?"

"Sure," Emma said. "I promise, I'll call for backup if the books come to life or anything. Go on, put your heads together."

Henry and Killian returned the manuscript and departed, leaving her to while away the rest of the afternoon on the various levels of the library, not even needing to resort to the mesmer to stay hidden in the stacks. Then she nipped back upstairs to Special Collections, heading into the bathroom, pushing a ceiling tile out of place, and leaping up to conceal herself in an uncomfortable crawlspace; still feeling the effects of the daylight shot, she wanted to conserve her power and do things the old–fashioned way as much as possible. She waited until the custodian had been in to turn the lights off, and things beyond had gone quiet, before she uncurled with a groan, jumped down, and emerged stealthily into the dark reading room.

City lights rushed past outside, casting stripes of glow on the floor as she slipped across it, silent as a shadow. She was feeling better now that the sun was down, though it promised to be a quiet night in here with just a lot of old books for company. No matter; some space would be welcome. She had a sneaking feeling that if she let herself go off alone with Killian again, something of a certain nature might have happened, and she didn't know how she felt about that.

Emma leapt lightly on top of one of the shelves, seating herself in the casement of the high window and letting her feet dangle. From this perch she could see across the room and into the hallway beyond, so if anyone came creeping, she'd know. She hoped Killian and Henry would be able to make some headway on the mystery; they were the smart ones, it made sense to apply their combined brainpower to the cause. Doubtless Henry also wanted to interrogate Killian in re: that scene he had witnessed earlier at the hotel, get the inside line on whether or not they were moving in the direction it had looked like, and Killian of course would tell him it was just a feed, not what it had looked like, not anything that would indicate he was in fact about to –

Emma was steadfastly trying not to imagine the conversation, and thus imagining it anyway, when she heard a faint creak from the hall, which at first sounded like the old building just settling for the night. But then it came again, and a low shadow wavered over the floorboards, advancing slow and steadily. A shadow that was very decidedly not human.

She went tense all over, pulling her feet up and reaching into her jacket to be sure that the particular item she had decided to bring was still there: a small silver dagger, contained in a Kevlar sheath so it didn't do her accidental damage. She drew it, the blade catching a brief gleam, and crouched low, watching, as the pad–pad–padding footsteps reached the door of the reading room and nudged it open. And then, confirming beyond doubt what she had already guessed by scent, a very large werewolf stepped inside, ears pricked and teeth bared, looking around for the intruder.

 _Oh fuck. Oh, fuck._ Apparently she was about to come face to face with whoever might be responsible for those attacks, and she fumbled for her phone with the other hand, before freezing – did she really want to bring Killian and Henry into the middle of this? The human police would be no use, and as long as there weren't more of them (oh shit, were there more of them? Was an entire pack living in the library basement?) she might just be able to handle one on her own. But the fact that there was apparently a standing guard on _this_ copy of the _Liber_ –

Whatever conclusions Emma was about to form, she didn't get the chance. That was because at that instant, the wolf scented her. Its eyes blazed feral gold, slaver dripping from its jaws, as it bounded across the reading room in a few effortless strides, reached the shelf she was perching atop, and went up on its hind legs, massive paws raking in an attempt to reach her, gouging into the wood. Books fell in a thunder as she kicked frantically backwards; it would get purchase in the next few moments, start climbing, and –

Emma slammed the wolf on the head with a particularly large dictionary, dazing it enough for her to take a running start and jump to the top of the next shelf, as it scrabbled and snarled in pursuit. As long as she stayed up here, it couldn't climb every one after her, a dancing, darting standoff that lasted until one of them made a mistake, until –

Unfortunately, however, this was apparently a very smart wolf. It lowered its massive shoulders and charged, slamming into the shelf hard enough to make it rock, and Emma lost her balance. She fell ten or twelve feet straight down, twisting around, as her dagger went clattering out of her hand, and the next instant it was on top of her, jaws gnashing and snapping as she threw up her arm, trying to keep it away from her throat, and felt a searing pain as it bit out a chunk of flesh instead. They wrestled in a whirlwind of vampire and werewolf, thumps and snarls and squeals and growls, arm and paw and tail and leg, as she fought backwards toward where she had seen the dagger fall – just a little closer, just a little _closer –_

She was losing feeling in her right arm, hoped it hadn't torn it clean off, as the fingers of her free hand batted at the dagger – then grabbed hold. Without breath, without time to plan, without anything except instinctive desperation, she drove it hilt–deep into the wolf's shoulder.

It jerked and kicked, letting out a horrible, rending howl as the silver forced it out of wolf–shape, and the next second she had an unconscious, bleeding, naked man lying on top of her. He was strongly built, heavily muscled, and covered almost entirely with rough, rugged scars, as if someone had torn him apart and then stuck him back together piece by piece. Light brown fur tufted his chest and belly and legs, matching his tousled curls, and his eyes, what little she could see through his lashes, were not lupine gold but instead pale blue. For an odd, impossible instant, she had the strangest feeling she knew him from somewhere, but she didn't. Had never seen him before in her life.

Emma lay for a long moment, recovering herself, before she pushed him off, wondering if she dared to take the dagger out or if he would immediately turn back into a wolf if she did. But he was wounded and unconscious, not a threat at the present moment, and she carefully eased it out, splashing more blood on the floor. Oh God, it was going to be a pain in the ass to clean this up before security got called and discovered the damage done to a very valuable and very off–limits section of the library. And she'd have to take this guy somewhere, tie him up, and start getting him to talk about who exactly was putting him up to this, why he was attacking people and/or guarding this particular version of the _Liber,_ and all the other useful intelligence he might be convinced or coerced into spilling. She was looking around for anything strong enough to bind a werewolf, even an injured one, when she heard a steady tap–tap–tap approaching down the hall, as if someone walking with a cane. _What the – ?_ She doubted some random oldster would have suddenly decided to drop in, unless this was the werewolf's handler coming to see who they had caught, and instead about to discover that things had gone incredibly pear–shaped.

Emma tensed, clutching her silver dagger harder and suddenly feeling very unarmed despite it, as a crack of light fell across the floor, silhouetting the slight figure of a man against it. He had shaggy grey–brown hair, an ivory–handled cane, and a black suit and tie, looking down at her with great interest. She stared back at him – he was definitely a vampire, and one of the strongest she had ever met, could feel it like a punch – and said nothing.

"Good evening, Miss Swan," the man said at last, and smiled. "So you've finally made it."


	12. Chapter 12

Killian and Henry were presently located in an underground deli a few blocks south of campus on the Amsterdam Avenue side, the kind where huge, greasy, delicious sandwiches were assembled at crackerjack speed in front of your eyes, the drinks cooler had a "Smile, You're on Camera" sign taped to the front, and the cashier, upon seeing Henry's Massachusetts driver's license as he opened his wallet to pay, joked that he should charge him double for being a Red Sox fan. They were wedged in a cramped dark corner away from the main seating area, and Henry, after a briefly apologetic look, tore into his double-decker club with fries as if the world was ending. "Sorry," he said, mouth full. "I came here a lot when I was agonizing through the last sections of dissertation editing. Helps me think."

"Well, that's what we need, isn't it?" Killian was old enough that he was rarely tempted by human food anymore, but even he felt a brief, ancestral pang of appetite. "Give me your notes, I'll see if I can make any bloody sense of them. My Latin's probably not much better than yours, but it does have the benefit of a few centuries of practice."

Henry dug in his bag for his scribbled commentary on _Liber incarcerati_ and passed it over, still eating, as Killian took a napkin and began to jot down additional impressions. Unfortunately, as Henry had said, it didn't make much sense. About what you'd expect from a megalomaniac like Gold, writing his manifesto to declare war on just about every other person who had the audacity to live in his world without asking. The only possible clue, assuming that this wasn't just a completely fake copy designed to destroy any competitor who got their hands on it, was this business about the _universus._ One vampire with particular powers, the key to the transformation. Not an Old One, either, which would be the logical first assumption; indeed the text seemed to stress (much as Killian could be sure without having it at hand to consult) that it was impossible for the _universus_ to be more than a hundred years old. They needed to be new, fresh, strong, young, the opposite of what they were called upon to alter, the very foundational principles of the science of alchemy, the seeds of that mystical transformation. _Lead to gold._ If an Old One wanted to become all-powerful, he'd need a young _universus_ to balance it out. And Gold, of course, had been an avid alchemist. It was the reason he had that nickname.

"Getting anything?" Henry asked, chewing. "Sorry my transcription's a bit crappy, I was trying to copy as much of it as I could, but I probably missed – "

"No, it's fine, lad," Killian said distractedly. His napkin was starting to get rather crowded and crossed-over, so he plucked out a fresh one and continued. Yet it occurred to him that Henry, a grown man and a professor, might be irritated by him habitually calling him that, and he glanced up. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude. I know we're near about the same age, physically, but chronologically – "

"It's all right," Henry said. "I have my students call me by my first name, I'm not one of those pricks who insists on being addressed as _Dr. Nolan_ all the time. I don't know, I like it. You're definitely the only person who uses it, it makes you unique." He paused, clearly trying to balance his curiosity with the demands of the investigation, then decided that this was close to downtime as they were going to get and said, "So. . . . you and my mom?"

"Ah. . . that." Killian coughed. "This morning, I wasn't – she suggested that I feed, and, well, decided it should be from the neck, I suppose as a gesture of trust, it's not quite what it – "

Henry held up a hand, though not without a look of amusement at the suave three-hundred-year-old vampire being reduced in three seconds to a blibbering idiot when attempting to talk about the girl he liked. "Look, you're both grownups – by a lot – and it's not my business what you do or don't do in various, um, locations. Honestly, I was saying to her the other night that I thought, well, there was kind of something going on. Apologies if that's not the case, but – "

"I. . . don't know." Killian looked down at the scarred wood of the table. "I do like your mum. Considerably so. I'd never have agreed to leave London and come here and everything else I've done, risk my life for someone I saw as loot, or merely a passing distraction. But I. . . well, I've no idea what to do about it. The closest thing I've had to a relationship in a hundred years was a drunken mutual pity party with a smart-mouthed werewolf, and that doesn't really prepare me for anything remotely functional. And your mum. . . it's plain enough she's deeply scarred. Doesn't want to let in yet another man who might break her heart, after so many of them have before. And I want to say I wouldn't, but bloody hell, Henry. I'm a monster. I've not stayed alive this long, hunting the most ruthless vampire there ever was, by being an altruist, a kind or even a decent person. I've been the worst. That's just the truth. And you don't wash that out by a fortnight of not complete failure."

Henry bit into a fry. "Well," he said, "you took the first step. You did agree to come here and help. That's something. Maybe you'll surprise yourself."

"I doubt it." Killian laughed hollowly. "I can't. I'm weak. Shutting myself up for a century was the only way to protect myself and everyone. And now I'm back in the world, I. . . "

"Hey," Henry said. "Whatever you think you might end up doing, you haven't done it yet, all right? You've been a big help to us, and I – we – are glad we met you. So let's crack this case and stop the bastards who are trying to kill us. Otherwise, it doesn't matter anyway."

"Aye, well," Killian agreed wryly. "That's still the long and short of it, then."

They spent the next several hours camped on the table, Henry getting up to buy an occasional drink refill or bag of chips or cookie so they wouldn't get kicked out, working through the scribbling and notes and fragmented theories, and coming up with the conclusion that the mention of the _universus_ made it more likely – still not 100%, but stronger than they would have otherwise thought – that this was the genuine copy, the one containing the actual instructions and elements for the ritual. They would need to consult it again to be sure, but there was only so much they could do for the night, and as they were getting up in hopes of finding a nearby hotel that would not break the bank, as Henry did not want to sleep in his car and be chased around by intractable New York traffic wardens (they'd already had to go and move it to a new spot closer by, then make runs out to feed the meter) Killian said, "Mind if we drop by campus again, just briefly? Make sure everything's all right?"

"I'm sure she's fine," Henry said. "She said she'd call if anything happened, remember?"

"Aye, but. . . just for my peace of mind. A quick look at the library, that should be enough. Shouldn't take more than five minutes."

Henry paused, then nodded, and they got up, cleaned off their rubbish, put their notes back in Henry's bag, and headed out into the night. It was a brief walk back to campus, through the gates and into the central square, and indeed, everything looked more or less peaceful. Yet as he gazed up at the elegant, pillared facade of Butler, engraved with the names of various intellectual luminaries, something dark and cold slithered down Killian's spine, without any damned good reason for it. "Wait here," he said to Henry. "I'm going to check."

"Hold on." Henry jogged after him. "Did you feel something, or – or what? I don't think there's anything, but if you have to, I'm not going to stay behind and – "

Killian barely heard him, flashing up the steps to the door, pulling it open – and then the next thing he knew, was flat on his back on the grassy lawn twenty feet away, as the threshold had repelled him with such violent force that he was momentarily completely dazed. He had never encountered an invitation protocol that strong on a public building before, especially one that he had successfully entered earlier in the day and still possessed a visitor's pass for – that, in the normal course of things, would be more than enough to get him in. He sat up slowly, head reeling, as Henry trotted toward him, looking alarmed. "What the hell was that?"

"Can't get in." Killian got unsteadily to his feet. "Somebody did something to it."

"Somebody, I take it, of a supernatural bent?"

"Undoubtedly. Humans can't change invitation protocols like that – and normally vampires can't either. It would take something like – something like – "

"Something like," Henry said, voice carefully offhand, "one of the various spells and rituals in the _Liber incarcerati_ , intended to increase vampire powers far beyond their normal limits?"

There was a brief, horrible silence. Then Killian swore at the top of his lungs, burned to his feet, balled a fist and hit his leg, and swore again. "Christ! We never should have left her alone in there! Bloody, _bloody hell,_ either someone followed us from Boston with Zelena's copy, or – "

"Or someone else is here," Henry said. In the dim glow of the campus path lighting, his face looked blanched and sick. "Someone who might have been waiting for us to turn up all along. Who definitely knows how to use everything in the _Liber,_ because he wrote it."

"No. It can't be him. No." Killian felt the words emerging more by rote than anything, out of frantic, furious denial. "I staked him, I put him out on the east side of the cathedral in the sun – I fought him for almost a week, I – I _killed_ him, I – "

"I really, really hate to ask this," Henry said. "But did you actually see him die? Turn into dust before your eyes?"

"No." Killian bent over, fighting the urge to black out – or worse. To give into the whispering lure of that Old One blood, that barely restrained monstrous nature. To tear through six floors of innocent college students with his bare hands, if that was what it took. "I went by each night to check until he wasn't there anymore, his body was gone. Others told me they'd definitely seen him die. I climbed up to look, and only the stake and a pile of ash remained. That was proof enough for me. So I. . . left the conscious world for the next few years."

"It still might not be him," Henry said, even as Killian could tell he was uttering the words from that same instinctive desperation that it couldn't, it _couldn't_ be. "But if it is – "

"We need backup." Killian straightened, starting to walk like a badly wound clockwork automaton. "We're going to have to go to Cruella."

"The crazy vampire queen?" Henry looked askance at him. "Are you sure that's the best – "

"Bloody hell! Emma is in there, and even if by some blessed miracle it's not with him, it's still with some lunatic who knows how to use the _Liber,_ and I'm not – I can't – whatever I did come here for, it wasn't to sit back and let this happen again!" Memories assaulted him like a flock of screeching birds, diving and pecking, drawing blood from sharpened beaks, until his chest felt as if it had been seized by a giant hand and ripped inside out. "And you and I can't take them on alone! I don't care what the price is, I don't care about the danger, we need help!"

Henry decided not to demur, the seriousness of the situation being plainly apparent. "How do we get there? Do you even know where she lives? Drive, or – ?"

"Somewhere on the Upper East Side. I can find it. And here." Killian turned. "Climb up, I'll carry you. I can run us there faster than it would take in the car."

Henry hopped onto his back, like a son eagerly demanding a horsey ride from his father, and Killian hitched him up; even with supernatural strength, he had to take a second to balance someone his same size. Then he lowered his head and lit out so fast that the streetlamps, glowing windows of the twenty Duane Reades and fifteen Starbucks every block, and harsh glare of the subway stations all turned into thin blurred lines.

He ran south on Columbus Avenue for forty blocks, paused and took a heading, crossed Central Park at 72nd, and tried to decide whether Fifth or Madison would be closer. He could sense that he was definitely drawing near, and as much as his desire was to barrel in guns blazing and drag them out by their designer furs (Cruella's crowd being well known for their _exquisite_ taste in fashion; it was rumored she had killed a fledgling for wearing knockoff Versace) he knew he had to be careful. He was close enough that he was probably already trespassing on coven territory without permission, and with a human in tow. . . perhaps they'd think he was just turning up stylishly late to the party with drinks. While the altered invitation protocol currently sealing off Butler Library was more than strong enough to keep one vampire out, even an Old One, it probably couldn't resist ten of them or so crashing into it at once, and Killian resolutely put out of his head what could happen if said ten vampires were then set loose in a library that still might contain a few night owls late on their homework. One problem at a time.

Madison, it was definitely Madison. He veered a block over, then down, and knew he had reached the place when he hit the intersection with East 66th. A palatial old red-brick building with a corner turret and rows of tall paned windows lorded it over high-end jewelry stores and name-brand fashion outlets, low-rise buildings and chic little cafes, and he let Henry down and said, "Follow my lead. This is going to be dangerous. I'll tell them you're my drone, so it would be extremely bad manners for them to chomp on you without my say-so, but I'll have to give them what they're expecting. Do you trust me?"

"If we're going to rescue my mom, you can play Mr. Rough and Tough all you want. I can take it." Henry squared his shoulders. "Let's go."

Killian paused, then ducked under the red awning and pulled the door open, testing if he could enter the building itself, even if not the individual apartments. Apparently he could, which was either a good sign or something arranged by Cruella to entice vampires in and put them off their guard, and when they stepped into the elevator, it was immediately apparent which one was hers. The number-six button was gaudily outlined in diamonds and faced in Swarovski crystal, twice as large as the ordinary ones, and Killian was left to consider that of course this woman lived on the sixth floor of a building on 66th Street. Queen Cruella de Vil did not go in for subtlety.

He hit it, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, unable to keep his thoughts from straying to what could potentially be happening to Emma right now, the way he had to tell himself it wasn't Gold, it couldn't be, because he would lose his bloody mind if it was. Perhaps some obvious desperation would scuff him up a bit, make his performance more convincing, but he was more afraid of being able to reverse it than he was of giving into his fear and anger in the first place. And if Cruella knew he needed her help, she would charge something exorbitant for it – whether in money or otherwise. Once she got done reaming him out for showing up without permission, of course. Maybe she liked a confident fellow.

The door dinged and opened, and they stepped out into a foyer done entirely in black-and-white geometric prints, something that was definitely not faux fur upholstering the chairs, and original lamps and fittings from Tiffany's. There were no doors except for one; Cruella apparently owned the entire floor. They could hear up-tempo jazz music blasting from a gramophone behind it, as she was clearly holding one of her usual Roaring Twenties theme parties, and Killian wondered if they would be immediately thrown out for failing to appear in period-appropriate costume. Nothing for it. He strode forward, adopting a fair simulacrum of his old insolent swagger, and rapped loudly on the door.

The music level dipped slightly, but didn't stop, and for several moments there was no response. Then a drone in a flapper dress and cloche hat opened it, twirling a long string of beads around her finger and regarding him judgmentally. "Who on earth are _you?"_

"Killian Jones, love." He smiled toothily, positioning himself as to give her the best view down his inadequately buttoned shirt, and breathed, "You want to let me in, eh?"

The drone blinked, far from immune to his roguish charms, which was satisfying even given the exigency of the situation. "I. . . I should. . . I have to ask the mistress."

"Who's that?" Another voice spoke from the crowd, which drew deferentially apart to reveal the vampire queen of New York in all her befurred, bejeweled, black-and-white-haired glory, filtered cigarette in a long holder and extra-bloody Bloody Mary in gloved hand, spangled dress flashing in the lamplight. "Oh, how sweet. A lost puppy. Come to beg for a bone?"

"Your Majesty." Killian leaned against the door in as fetching a pose as he could manage on short notice. "Lovely to see you tonight."

Cruella surveyed him up and down, clearly appreciative of the amount of masculine beauty on display, before she took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke delicately into his face. "Yes, it's not every day a failed Chippendale's model graces my modest soiree. Oh, and you brought a hostess gift as well? Charming. What's the vintage on this one – '83?"

"That's my drone. Touch him, love, and I'll have to bite." He snapped his fangs at her. "Not in the pleasant way, either."

"Ooh," Cruella said. "Someone had better make sure they catch me when I swoon, as I'm sure will happen momentarily. It's rude to bring your own food to a party, darling, so if you wanted to come in, doubtless you'd be willing to share. I think I recognize your scent, though. Aren't you Regina Mills' useless brother?"

"We've met." Killian shrugged. "But as it is, I'm not here for the entertainment, splendid though it is. We have a small. . . crisis in Butler Library, at Columbia. There's an exceptionally strong invitation protocol blocking us out, and given the rumors about werewolf attacks, I'm willing to bet there are a few of those around as well. I've heard about your little gift with beasts. What say you help me out, and I'm sure I can find a way to repay the favor?"

"You want me to _help you out?"_ Cruella laughed aloud, blowing another waft of smoke. "What a perfectly adorable request. It's true, I could teach those dogs some manners if I took a mind to it, but what is in it for me? And don't say gin. Everyone says gin. It's so terribly unoriginal."

Killian bit his tongue, as that was in fact exactly what he had been going to offer. Cruella was one of the few vampires who had taught herself to tolerate human libations, mainly by dint of continuing to drink them every day after she was turned, ignoring all sickness or violent rejection to the contrary, until her body finally gave up, waved the white flag, and decided that since there was nothing it could do to stop being subjected to them, it might as well accept its fate. As such, she could occasionally be bribed with bottles of staggeringly expensive and deluxe alcohol, but as Killian did not have a spare three thousand dollars or so lying around to purchase a bottle of Krug Clos d'Ambonnay, that option was out. (He did have to confess to a brief jealousy, as getting drunk without intermediary was a skill he would very much like to still have, but then, he wouldn't have gotten to enjoy Will if not, so he supposed it all came out in the wash.)

With that, there was only one gamble he could make, as much as he desperately did not want to, much as he feared that him saying it aloud would make it real. As Cruella turned away, apparently considering this particular interview with a vampire to be at a decided end, he blurted out, "I think it might be Gold."

She stopped. That name clearly meant something to her, and when she turned back, he saw that for better or for worse, he had her interest. "Oh?"

"Aye. Details are a bit unclear at this point, but – " He did his best to shrug casually. "It fits with what I've been beginning to suspect about the whole affair. It's not out of the question that he's somehow behind the werewolf attacks as well, using them for his dirty work, and, well – isn't controlling animals _your_ lookout?"

Cruella's nostrils flared. "Gold," she said after a moment. "Yes, I recall him. Short, poorly dressed, _and_ incredibly irritating, like a flea you just can't squash and keeps on biting you long after it should have had the sense to stop. And he's – what, holding a library of college students hostage? Unless you've suddenly developed a keen interest in card catalogues, why the rush?"

Killian hesitated. "There's a. . . there's a woman."

"Oh, what a profound and completely unforeseeable shock. Somebody hand me those pearls over there, I need to clutch them." Cruella nodded at the side table, waited until a drone actually did so, and pressed them to her bosom in arch sarcasm. "There, that expresses my feelings on the matter succinctly. So your lady love has somehow been kidnapped by this fiend, is that it? Well. I _may_ be willing to lend a hand, if it doesn't take too long, if you, say. . . let me have a taste of this drone of yours here?" She eyed Henry like a particularly prime cut of beef at the butcher shop. "Bit scrawny, and the spectacles are atrocious, but we can always take those off."

Killian and Henry opened their mouths indignantly at the same moment, then shut them. Killian shot a glance at him, not willing to make the decision for him and not trusting that a taste was all Cruella wanted, but equally aware that they would be very far up shit creek if they refused. The same thoughts must have been going through Henry's head, but Emma's predicament was still uppermost in both of them, and after a moment he said, "Fine. It's a deal."

Cruella smiled, which was not at all reassuring. "Oh, and one other thing. If we do catch a wolf, I get to make it into a new coat. Or a throw rug. I haven't quite decided which, but my old one is _so_ grotty. It's really past time for a replacement."

Killian hesitated. It seemed pointless to tell her that this was a flagrant violation of the 1940 accords, as she was clearly well aware of that, but any wolf working for Gold deserved what it got, and if Cruella hadn't been thrown out of her position yet, one more extravagant bout of rule-breaking wouldn't make much of a difference. "Fine."

"Marvelous." Cruella turned to address her guests. "Darlings, I find myself unexpectedly called away to perform my charitable action for the century, so do carry on without me. Don't wait up."

With that, she set down her glass and cigarette holder, clicked her fingers autocratically, and was furnished with a large fur coat, a set of keys, and a travel-sized gin flask, in case she felt like taking any tipples while on the road. This shameless display of irresponsible motoring (and they hadn't even gotten to the car yet) clearly almost made Henry change his mind, but he shut his mouth with an audible click and trailed after Killian and Cruella out the door and into the elevator. As they reached the ground floor and stepped out, she whipped on a pair of outsized designer sunglasses (clearly just because she could; they were name-brand Prada) and led them into the parking garage. "Nothing like a little midnight outing to clear your head, eh?"

Killian had been about to complain that they could certainly get to Columbia faster by running, but then again, Cruella was wearing spiky stilettos that she clearly did _not_ intend to break a heel off, and he had reckoned without her driving. The De Vil Mobile was a long, low-slung custom white Rolls-Royce Phantom (seeing as Arthur also owned one, it was apparently the vehicle of choice for shady vampire magnates with cash to burn) with half a dozen unpaid parking tickets crammed under its wipers, and when Cruella hopped inside, gunned it to life, and screamed out of the garage at close to subsonic speed, he was reduced to vainly clutching his seat and swallowing his stomach out of his mouth. They roared north on Madison, engine growling and whining as Cruella stamped the clutch, double-shifted, and crossed Central Park on the 85th Street Transverse, knocking over stray hot dog carts and garbage bins left and right.

They decelerated with a howl onto Amsterdam, then immediately sped up again, zooming north as Cruella completely ignored the NYPD squad car that had appeared in her rearview mirror, siren blaring, trying to get her to pull over. Instead, apparently thinking this was just the time for it, she took a long slug of gin, wove past a slow-moving bus in the right lane, double-shifted again, and whirled up on Columbia's east-side entrance as if a hurricane had dropped them there. But by the time the NYPD car pulled up and the sergeant jumped out, radioing furiously for assistance on 116th, the three of them, the two vampires and Henry, were already long gone.

* * *

"You know," the vampire said, looking peeved when Emma failed to answer after several long moments, and instead only kept staring dumbly. "I just wished you good evening, dearie. The polite thing to do would be to reciprocate."

"Good – evening." It felt forced out of her by some ludicrous reflex, as if she was actually going to sit here and trade pleasantries with him. There certainly did not seem to be any better option. The unconscious werewolf (still in human form, luckily) was sprawled in front of her, the fallen shelves were blocking any quick escape to the rear, and while she could probably manage a jump from a sixth-floor window, it was too far away to get to before he would intercept her. She didn't trust that cane ruse for an instant. He wanted her to underestimate him.

"That's better." He smiled, stepping across the threshold, then glanced down at the werewolf, and the expression changed to an annoyed frown. "I see you've made rather a mess of my slave. How very inconsiderate."

"Your _slave?"_ Emma's voice rose sharply. "So let me guess, you're the actual reason for the werewolf attacks around here. You've been siccing him on students – why?"

"Well, a fellow doesn't like to go hungry, does he?" The vampire giggled, an affected little titter that raised every hackle she had. "I had to make sure I had plenty of sustenance while I waited for you, Emma Swan. I almost thought I was going to have to send a gilded invitation to get you to come down, but you finally did figure it out. Oh yes, you and I are going to have _such_ fun together. Considering what I've endured to get here, it merits no less."

"How do you know who I am?" That was a stupid question, but she still wasn't thinking straight. "And what did you do to the wolf? Mesmer doesn't work on them."

"Professional interest?" He cocked his head, regarding her intently. There was not a single speck of white in his eyes; they were completely jet-black, the unsettling flat gaze of a demon. "Indeed, mesmer _usually_ doesn't work on wolves. This one in particular, stubborn as he is, has given me all sorts of fits. But you see, that's one obstacle I've managed to overcome, at least for now. And you, Emma – you'll be helping me with the rest."

At that, it fell into sudden and horrifying place. She jerked backwards, bolting to her feet, brandishing the silver dagger as absurdly inadequate defense. _"Gold?"_

"Ah, so you've heard of me." This appeared to genuinely please him. "I was expecting to have to spend a great deal more time bringing you up to speed, but someone has saved me the trouble. Regina, was it? Or your charming traveling companion – Killian Jones?"

"I know about you." Emma's grip tightened on the dagger. "And what you've done. Let's just leave it at that."

Gold shook his head. "A pack of lies, half-truths, and hysteria, no doubt. Those two always were _such_ disappointments. You're Zelena's whelp, aren't you? I thought so. She's more like me, even if quite spectacularly psychotic. Why, that makes me your dear old granddad. Do you feel like sitting down and telling me about what you're studying in school? Maybe what you want for Christmas?"

"Cut to the chase, asshole." Emma shot another glance at the werewolf. Silver would keep him out for a while, but not forever. The arm he had taken a chunk out of was still bleeding, for that matter; wounds inflicted by a fellow immortal didn't mend instantly, and she was going to have to be careful if she didn't want to make it worse. "Like what _you_ want."

"Isn't it obvious?" Gold shrugged. "My book is here – my _real_ book. It contains all the rituals I will need to remove, one by one, the fetters that have unfairly shackled our power as vampires. As you can see, I've had some small success with mesmering a wolf – " he waved negligently at the beast in question – "and a few other arenas, but all the greatest changes needed to wait for you. Have you possibly grasped why?"

For a moment longer, she still didn't, not that she was going to condescend herself to asking – and then she did. "Do you – do you mean _I'm_ this – this _universus?"_

"Bravo." Gold lifted his hands and clapped sardonically. "If you only knew what your own name meant – _Emma,_ universal – you might have figured it out at once. I've been waiting a very long time for you, Miss Swan, as I said. Shouldn't we get started?"

"You're supposed to be dead," she said stupidly. "You're supposed to be dead."

Gold sighed. "Really, that's what we're going to get hung up on? It's a long story, far longer than I presently have time to relate, but suffice it to say, my beloved wife wasn't going to let me die, not when she could possibly _somehow_ save me. And I made quite a sacrifice for it, too." A shadow passed over his face. "Why do you think it's taken so long to get my powers back?"

"What – you're _married?"_ Emma stared at him in disbelief. "To who, Frankenstein's bride?"

Gold laughed, but he plainly did not find it amusing. "I was, yes. A most loyal and lovely woman. But nothing, I think, you need to know about. So, here's what we're going to do. You're going to send a message to Regina telling her that you've discovered the situation in New York is quite dangerous – which, after all, is no lie. Tell her that you want her to come down here immediately. That, naturally, will bring Zelena panting after her. Then when they arrive, you will perform a certain ritual on them, the methods in which I will instruct you, and bring them to me."

"What – so you can kill them?"

"Yes," Gold said genially. "So I can kill them. Excellent deduction, really."

"So – you're not – you're not working with any of them?"

"Why on earth would I do that? I imagine there are quite a number of pathetic little aspiring tyrants scuttling around the other copies of my book – let me know how that works out, I'm afraid it won't be very well. You yourself are safe; as the _universus,_ you have a long career of working for me to look forward to. Exempt from the protocol that requires me to sacrifice everyone else in my line." He shrugged. "I would prefer you to do this willingly, but if not, we have options. I do have to kill Mr. Jones and your son anyway, so which one would you like me to start with?"

"You son of a bitch."

Gold raised an eyebrow. "Careful, dearie. Please put down that butter knife you're clutching, by the way. It's not going to do you any good against me. I'm quite willing to stand here and let you plunge it into my chest if it would convince you, but that would _definitely_ make me angry, and I doubt you want to start off our partnership that way."

Emma was vastly tempted to call his bluff, but if it wasn't one, it might indeed somehow make the situation worse than it already was. Fangs bared to show that this was in no way a surrender or submission, she opened her fingers and let the silver dagger fall to the floor.

"Very good." Gold stooped in a swift, serpentine strike and picked it up, then stowed it inside his jacket. From the same pocket he removed a small, stoppered vial – the man on the floor was starting to come around from his wound, trying to regain his wolf shape, but as that was plainly contrary to Gold's aims at the moment, he flipped open the vial and forced its contents down his slave's throat. Emma recognized the distinctive sharp scent of wolfsbane – a deadly poison to humans, but a painful, stupefying sedative to a wolf. Give him enough of those, and Gold would barely need the mesmer to control him.

She pushed away a brief pang of pity. She was already in a world of hurt as it was, there was nothing she could do for the poor bastard, and it looked as if Gold was casting his net broadly when it came to ruining people's lives. So did this mean, as it appeared, that Zelena, Arthur, Naomi-or-possibly-Nimue, and anyone else were up to their own plans, and unaware of the fact that the prizewinning champion of scheming evil assholes was here to take a piss in their collective cornflakes? All of them wanted _Liber incarcerati,_ but must not know that the only real copy was here, and Gold was well on the way to getting everything he wanted from it. _Unless I stop him._ But how? She had no idea how to leverage any special power that being the _universus_ might give her, and if he wanted her to lure Regina and Zelena down here to be killed – she might not mind seeing Zelena bite it, she had to admit, but not Regina – not that she knew how to refuse, not when he clearly could start off by killing Killian and Henry and then who know who else, would probably happily burn his way through New York if she tested him –

At that moment, Gold apparently heard something to catch his attention, and he paused, head cocked. Then he said, "Well, dearie, we're going to have to cut this short for the time being. I'll be in touch. Please don't try anything stupid until I am. This doesn't _have_ to be messy."

With that, he clicked his fingers, and the wolf staggered to his feet, clearly reeling from the effects of the toxin, and followed Gold mindlessly out of the room. A second later there was a rushing sound and a blur of movement, and Emma knew they were gone, out a window or down a stair or to wherever they might be holed up, and she almost collapsed, hanging onto a table. She didn't know what had made him retreat, and knew she hadn't been spared – only that he didn't want to be discovered or to waste his energy in whatever confrontation would have obtained if he hadn't made a calculated exit. She was still staring down at the blood on the floor, the overturned shelves, the general chaos and disorder, when footsteps thundered in the hall outside, and the next, Killian, Henry, and an unfamiliar woman burst in. Or rather, Killian and Henry burst in; the woman brought up the rear at a leisurely saunter, clearly not about to do anything distressing like breaking a nail over this undignified kerfuffle. She smelled of cigarette smoke and some rich dark perfume, and glanced around with a sharp sniff, eyebrows diving down in a frown of disapproval. "Where's the wolf? I smell a wolf. I want my new rug."

Killian and Henry both completely ignored her, rushing to Emma's side and grasping her elbows. "Jesus bloody Christ, love!" She could feel Killian's hands shaking. "There was something keeping us out of the library – a massively strong invitation protocol of some kind, Cruella knew a way to break it, but are you – Christ, are you hurt?"

"Cruella?" Emma peered over his shoulder, and her jaw dropped. "Is that her? The cra – the vampire queen of New York?"

"In the flesh, darling." Cruella de Vil sounded bored. "And I've just helped save yours, so a _bit_ of gratitude would be nice."

"Th-thank you." She was starting to shake as well, wanted nothing more than to fling herself into Killian's arms and stay there for about the next ten years, but she couldn't let that happen just yet, not least because she wasn't sure she could ever pull herself back together if she did. "He was here – it was him, he – "

"Who?" Killian's voice was calm, almost deceptively so. "Gold?"

Emma tried to speak, found that her voice had momentarily been mislaid, and nodded.

Killian opened and shut his mouth. He carefully stepped away from her, and crossed the room to the window at the far side. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing; he obviously cast no reflection in it, but she could guess at the expression on his face. Then with a howl of agony, he punched it hard enough to shower glass everywhere, not stopping until he had well and thoroughly battered it to bits. He sank to his knees, head in his hands, as Cruella regarded him with a completely unsympathetic gaze. "Oh, boo-hoo, you're a failure at life. We all knew that already, I'm not sure what the shock is. I'll be sure to tell them where to send the bill."

Killian didn't answer; he plainly didn't even hear her. Emma glared at her, though, and took a hesitant step in his direction. "Killian?"

"Aye?" He sounded as if he very much wanted to get up and throw himself out.

"Come on. We need to decide what we're going to do."

"What does it matter?" He remained where he was, staring at his split and bloody knuckles, even as they started to heal. "I put everything I had into trying to kill him for almost two hundred years. I turned into a monster myself, and then once I thought I'd finally done it, I lost my mind. I can't do it again. I'm not strong enough. I can't defeat him and I can't see him take anyone else from me. You should just stake me right now and spare me the pain."

"Now that," Cruella said, "would be a waste. Of your face, I mean, since everything else is hopeless. There's an opening for a custodian in my building, you could always move in, but feeding off the janitor would be _so_ déclassé. Not to mention disgusting."

"Lady, just shut up for a second, okay?" Emma didn't care how big of a shot she was, she didn't get to gleefully twist the knife like this. After she had assured herself that Killian wouldn't jump out the broken window if she came nearer, she advanced cautiously, knelt next to him, and touched his shoulder. "Hey," she whispered. "Come on. Please."

For a long moment more he didn't respond, until a shudder ran through him from head to toe. Without a word, he allowed her to help him up, then lead him back across the room, as Henry reached for him concernedly. "She's right. Let's find somewhere to rest for the night."

"Excuse me, darlings," Cruella said. "I was promised a taste of the drone _and_ a wolfskin for my floor, and I am currently zero of two. That doesn't strike anyone as a problem?"

"Dr – ?" Emma was about to say that no drone was present, until she saw Henry draw a finger significantly across his throat, and felt an unpleasant, nauseated understanding settle over her. "Wait, the wolf – he's not working for Gold willingly. He's been mesmered and wolfsbaned out of his mind, it's pretty sad. You can't just – "

"Do I look like I care?" Cruella removed a tube of lipstick from her purse and touched up her trout pout, giving Emma unwelcome recollections of Zelena. "If I'm going to be in the business of putting suffering supernaturals out of their misery, it's downright merciful of me to make that one into a rug. I want that wolf, and I won't stop until I get it. As for the feeding, that at least we can settle expeditiously." She crooked a finger at Henry. "Come to mummy."

Henry hesitated, then glanced at Killian. "We did make a bargain," he said slowly. "And she did help us get in here."

"Oh, I do hope you weren't thinking of welching?" Cruella smiled, red lips parting over her fangs. "Surely if you're a drone, you'll be familiar with the process?"

"Yes," Henry said. "Yes, of course."

With that, as bravely and nonchalantly as possible, he walked up to her, unbuttoned his collar, and bared his neck, clearly guessing that Cruella wasn't going to be satisfied with the wrist. Emma felt something burning in the back of her own throat – she had never intended to subject Henry to this, wanted to keep him away from this part of her world, wanted him to have that normal life she had bought for him at such cost, when it was David and Mary Margaret who gave it to him. But she forced herself to watch. Had to realize what the price was.

Cruella stepped forward, removed Henry's glasses, and flicked them aside. Then she stroked his face and the side of his neck with a long crimson nail, marked her spot with an X, leaned in, and bit hard.

Henry jerked, doing his best to smile reassuringly at Emma and Killian, even though it must be hurting him excruciatingly; the first time a human was fed on, especially if the vampire was doing it this roughly, was exactly as painful as someone chomping into your jugular vein sounded like. It could be made easier with the mesmer, with preparation and attention and care (once again, like sex) but it was still a hell of a process, and Henry's eyes were clenched shut as he fought through it. Cruella was clearly in no hurry, and it was only when Henry's knees started to sway from light-headedness that she pulled back, fangs dripping. "Oh now, that was quite exquisite. I daresay almost virginal. I'll be back for more, darling."

With that, she let go, causing Henry to tumble to hands and knees as Emma rushed to his side, putting an arm over his shoulders and carefully licking the punctures closed; Cruella hadn't even bothered to do that. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, on the verge of tears. "Are you all right?"

"'m fine." Henry sounded more than a bit muzzy. "Les' jus. . . les' jus go."

The three of them were all so wrecked that Emma didn't know who should be holding who up, but they somehow made it out of the library. Walked, and kept on walking, as sirens sounded distant at first and then closer, not quite sure where they were going but only that they had to get there before they fell to pieces, and vanished into the night.


	13. Chapter 13

Emma barely remembered how they got out of the city. Henry was in no fit state to drive and Killian didn't know how, so by the time they tracked down the car and tumbled in, she was the one stuck with the job. None of them felt safe anywhere near Manhattan, it was even less safe to run back to Boston, and she couldn't get Gold's threats out of her head, the promise that if she tried to fight back in any way, he would have no compunctions about unleashing a reign of terror to totally dwarf all his previous efforts. So she pointed the car north on the Henry Hudson Parkway and pressed the accelerator flat until they were somewhere in Westchester, which still didn't feel like enough distance, but she was too frightened to go any further. She pulled into a Ramada, and since she was likewise the only one in any state to do so, went inside and rented two rooms, wincing at the strain on her beleaguered credit card. Between the trip to London and the fact that she hadn't been able to take any bail-jumping cases since this entire mess started, she was in danger of significantly depleting her (minimal) savings if this kept up. Considering the magnitude of her other problems, like a resurrected vampire dark lord threatening to murder everyone she cared about in order to turn her into his personal Darth Vader and assist him in taking over the world, her bank account was probably less important, but still.

She went back to the car and led the boys inside. Henry's general demeanor was of a man returning from a long night of heavy drinking, and Killian was so grim and distracted that he almost walked through the plate glass window instead of the door, which would have been unpleasant even for a vampire. She corralled them into the elevator without loss of life or limb, then got them to their third-floor rooms, swiping Henry into one and guiding him to the bed, which he toppled onto with a crash. "'m okay, Mom. Promise. Jus' a little. . . woozy."

"No, you're not." Emma hated herself for the way her voice cracked. "You just had a crazy vampire queen feed on you as roughly as she possibly could, you had to make that bargain to save me in the first place because I dragged you into this terrible situation, because. . . Henry, I'm so sorry, I didn't – I never wanted – "

With a groan, he levered himself upright and reached for her hand. "Mom, stop. Don't do this to yourself. I was the one who – who asked you to start invest – investigating it in the first place. It's my fault as much as yours. And wha' happened with Cruella. . . I made the choice to do it. To get to you. We both did. So don't. . don't take it on yourself."

Emma let out a shuddering breath, tears still spilling down her cheeks, as she squeezed his hand hard. "I never wanted anything like this to happen to you," she said, barely above a whisper. "I wanted to keep you away from this world."

"I know." Henry sighed, looking worn and tired. "It's just a. . . just a little bite on the neck, not the end of everything. I'm not mad."

Emma didn't answer, still looking down at him, until she let go of his hand. "I want you to get out of here," she said. "I want you to call Harvard, take an official leave of absence or whatever else you need to do, and buy a one-way ticket to Dubai or someplace like that, somewhere sunny and hot where vampires won't go. Gold already openly threatened your life, Zelena has as well, and I. . . please, Henry. For me."

"What? Leave you and Killian by yourselves to deal with this, while I bolted like a coward?" Henry stared at her as if she had sprouted an extra head, eyes coming into focus and voice losing its drunken slur. Apparently the egregious nature of this suggestion was enough to cut right through the remnants of his fuddled post-feed state. "Not to mention that if I suddenly left the country while the attacks are still going on, of students who all have some connection to me, it would look a hell of a lot like I was ducking out ahead of the law. I knew there were risks when I chose to get involved in this, Mom. Running away isn't going to solve anything, for any of us."

"My kid, the hero." Emma managed half a smile. She still didn't know where Henry had acquired this fundamental decency – not from her, definitely not from Neal. It must be due to David and Mary Margaret, the perfect parents, if it wasn't just one of those inexplicable genetic quirks where a child turned out as more than the sum of their fucked-up parts. "I. . . I'm proud of you, Henry. I really am. I just don't want to gamble with your life."

"If worse comes to worse. . . I suppose you always have the option of turning me." Henry's voice was offhand, but his eyes held hers intently. "And I have to admit, if it came to that, I'm not very keen on the idea of dying either. If that's what it was. . ."

"No." Emma shuddered. "I wouldn't be able to do it. A vampire usually has to be at least twice my age to be strong enough to manage the transformation process, and obviously I've never done it before. I'd be more likely to kill you myself than make you into a vampire."

"Well then," Henry said. "Let's operate on the assumption, for now, that I'm not going to die. And that we need allies who are more reliable and less insane than freaking Cruella de Vil. Call Regina and tell her what's going on, ask for reinforcements ASAP."

"I don't know." Emma clenched her fingers into a fist. "That was exactly what Gold wanted me to do. Call her and have her – and Zelena – come down here, to lead them into his trap. That stuff about that one vampire, the _universus. . ._ he seemed to think it was, well. . . it was me."

"You?" Henry looked startled. "Mom, that would be. . . that would be pretty damn dangerous."

"Yeah, I know. I can't exactly stop being it, though, if I am. He could have been lying, but. . . I don't think so. There's no point in telling me I can help him if I can't."

"Call Regina," Henry said again. "She probably at least knows how he thinks, the kind of curveballs you can expect him to throw. Then she can decide whether to come down here or not. Yes, I know Arthur has her over a barrel, but it's worth a try."

Emma hesitated, still feeling as if this was playing into Gold's hands somehow, but then again, it wasn't as if she had a multiplicity of options. She pulled out her phone, hoped the 7% battery charge wouldn't run out before she finished her call, and hit Regina's number.

It rang twice, then went over to voicemail, and she hung up – this not feeling like the kind of news that could be broken to a message machine – and redialed. Finally this time, on the last ring, Regina picked up, sounding annoyed. "Yes? What do you want? I thought you were in New York."

"I am in New York." Emma sat down on the other bed. "And I have bad news."

"If you've been doing something stupid that's going to embarrass me in front of – "

"For God's sake, just forget about the witan seat for a second!" Emma gritted her teeth, strangling a fistful of the standard-issue polyester bedspread for lack of anything more satisfying. With that, before Regina could get in any further interruptions, she poured out the story, stopping at multiple intervals to repeat that Regina could not tell _anyone_ about this, as there were potential spies everywhere, Zelena still probably had someone planted in her household, and Arthur's motives were questionable to say the least. She didn't know if it did any good, as Regina had a tendency to be deaf to anything she didn't want to hear, but she didn't care. This was too dangerous (and potentially apocalyptic) to let personal agendas get in the way.

When she finished, Regina was completely and gratifying silent for several moments. Then she demanded, "Gold – Gold's _back?"_

"Believe me," Emma said. "I wish it was some kind of sick joke. But I don't think so."

"And nobody knew about this? The most dangerous vampire to ever live just strolls back into Columbia University and unleashes his pet wolf to munch on students while he's waiting for you to start on his world domination program, and nobody turns a _hair?"_

"Why don't you ask your friend Arthur? We're fairly sure he's the one responsible for meddling with the Old Ones registry. If he had left it alone to do its job instead of forging and manipulating it to kingdom come, we might have had a heads up."

"He's not my friend," Regina said curtly. "We have a business arrangement."

"Well then, ask your business partner. But good luck getting a straight answer out of him. He's almost certainly looking for the _Liber_ in order to do the same thing, and it's still entirely possible he's in league with Zelena and Naomi. If he knew the real one was here, he'd come running after you, and then we would have something like a three-way war for ultimate control of the entire supernatural world. Look, Regina. I know we're not grade-school girlfriends who braid each other's hair and prank-call boys we like, but by blood, you're my aunt, and you're definitely the closest thing I have to family outside of Henry. And what's going on right now is so much bigger than whether or not you end up appointed to the witan by a vampire who's even older than Gold and possibly just as untrustworthy. I really need your help."

Again, Regina didn't answer immediately. Then she asked, "How's Killian taking this? Drunk and brooding already, no doubt?"

"He's your brother," Emma said. "You can admit you're worried about him."

Regina uttered a humorless laugh. "Family is never a blessing when it comes to vampires, Miss Swan. I'd think you would have noticed that by now. And besides, I'm not worried about him. I just need to know how much of a mess I'd have to clean up if I did come down there."

"Well then. Probably about as well as you'd expect. Gold said something about his wife saving him, I don't know what happened exactly, or who he was married to, but – "

"Her name was Belle," Regina said. "Insipid little twit blinded by her unwavering belief that he could just _change_ and be a better man and they could have a real life together, which took a truly stupefying level of self-delusion, but there you have it. It's true, though, that she was the only person he ever did a remotely decent thing for, until she gave him one second chance too many. I don't remember what led to it exactly, but she's dead."

"Really? Because people who are supposed to be dead have been cropping up like May flowers recently."

"Yes," Regina said coolly. "Zelena killed her. You can be quite sure there were no mistakes."

"Oh." Indeed, that might add a personal element to Gold's desire to wipe out his entire bloodline and thus achieve ultimate power, to prevent such a thing from ever happening again, but while she felt sorry for this woman, Emma couldn't say that he didn't deserve it. And anyway, it still wasn't the important question right now. "So are you going to help us or not?"

Regina hesitated. "I'll think about it."

"Well, think about it fast, because otherwise we'll be hung out to dry down here. Good night."

With that, not caring if she came across as rude – the delicate egos of vampire queens were definitely on the list of things that could currently afford to be sacrificed – Emma hung up. Henry had gone into the bathroom, presumably in some attempt to tidy himself up and snatch a few hours of sleep, and she didn't know if taking a second booster shot in a row was a terrific idea (well, she knew it wasn't, but had to balance it against the question of what they might lose if they checked out for the day). That reminded her – she hadn't wanted to crowd him or force him to talk or watch him melt down, but she also didn't want to leave Killian completely to the mercy of the demons in his head, who must be after him full roar. After one more glance at the bathroom door to assure herself that Henry was all right and didn't need anything else from her right now, she got up, slipped quietly out, and knocked on the door of the neighboring room.

After a pause long enough to briefly make her worry he had contrived some method of killing himself with the contents of a two-star motel room (the shower curtain rod?) there was an indistinct, mumbled answer. She swiped the extra key card and let herself in.

Killian was sprawled on one of the two double beds, boots and jacket off, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. He lifted his head slightly at her entrance and attempted to look normal, but gave it up at once and fell back on the pillow. "I'll. . . I'll keep, Swan. You should stay with your boy."

"Henry. . . Henry's all right. He's handling this better than I am. I just wanted to. . . see if you needed anything."

He laughed, a sound somewhere between a bark and a sob. "Nothing you or anyone can give me, that's for bloody certain."

"I – I know." She had no idea how to do this, she wasn't any good at it, but his pain was so agonizing, so tangible, that she could almost reach out and touch it, and having spent one too many years in that place herself, she couldn't just walk away and let it strangle him into submission. "Killian, I'm. . . I'm sorry about Gold."

"Sorry?" His mouth twisted around the word. "Sorry for what, love? It's not your fault. If anything, it's mine, for leaving you alone in there with him. It was sheer luck – and a ludicrously dangerous bargain – that we were able to get to you in time, and those were only the opening shots of the war. Next time, I doubt we'll have similar fortune."

His words made a profound chill grip hold of Emma. "Do you really think there will be one?" It would be as bad for supernaturals as it would be for humans, and they weren't likely to get out unscathed, either. When a duel to the presumed death between Killian and Gold, just two vampires, had killed forty-two others, it provided a morbid estimate of what a full-fledged war might cost.

"I don't see the devil of a lot of other options to stop Gold. And I can't even get drunk to block it all out." Killian resumed his relentless fixation on a single square foot of ceiling. "Bloody hell, lass, just go. I'm no fit company. And it's already enough of my fault what happened to Henry."

"I. . . I thought it was mine," Emma said after a moment. "He, in turn, insisted it was his, that he made the choice to agree to it to get to me in time. But going to Cruella for help in the first place. . . I'm guessing that was your idea."

Killian's hesitation was palpable. Then he said, "Aye, it was. I couldn't get to you, I knew you were in danger after I foolishly left you alone, and because of it, I made a reckless decision that may well have put us in even more danger. I understand you must be angry about it. If you want to chastise me for it, that's your right, but could you possibly not do it this very instant? I feel bloody wretched enough as it is."

"Chastise?" Emma was startled. "What? No. That's not what I meant. I. . . I just. . . nobody's ever done that before. Put me first, I mean. And if you and Henry hadn't showed up when you did, I honestly don't know what would have happened. I just wanted to. . . to thank you."

This was apparently so much of a shock to him, braced for her reprimands, that he glanced away, completely unable to meet her gaze at all. His shoulders heaved in a barely contained shudder of agony, twisting him almost in half, as he struggled to pull himself together long enough to answer her. "It was. . . it was still idiotic."

"Maybe," Emma said. "But it was also still the first time anyone's done that for me."

Silence. She could turn around and leave, or lie down on the other bed, or go into the bathroom and run a long shower – any or all of which were certainly tempting options. But after a moment, she stepped forward, crossed the rug, and perched on the edge of Killian's bed, just close enough to keep him company without being too forward or mixing her signals. "I'm sorry," she said again, softly. "I wish Will was here."

Killian's shoulders vibrated in a painful laugh. "And why is that, love?"

"He'd probably know how to help you better than I do." She looked down at her lap, hands knotted together. "Or at least he'd bring some booze."

"That, stupid wisecracks, and obnoxious music," Killian murmured, without any heart. "Though considering Gold is apparently now enslaving werewolves that Cruella subsequently wants to make into coats, this is far from the safest place for him. Christ, Gold will have to kill him too, after all the blood and whatever else we've shared. If he hasn't already painted a target on his back after stealing the Old Ones registry and discovering the vampire potentate has possibly made the entire thing into a lie. We'll have to warn him."

"I suggested Henry go into hiding in Dubai," Emma said, with a weak laugh. "He wouldn't agree. Maybe Will can instead."

"Dubai?" Killian closed his eyes. "Not likely. Will would be bloody miserable in any place you can't drink, kiss, or swear in public, love. He won't go either."

"All right, I don't know, Thailand or something. We have to have options." Emma's fists clenched tighter. "I refuse to believe we have to just sit here and wait for Gold to pick us off one by one. I called Regina, but I don't know if she's going to come through or not, or if Arthur would even let her if she decided to intervene. Surely we can come up with a contingency plan in the meantime, we have to do something, we have to – "

Killian reached out and took her hand.

"I – what?" Emma was so startled that she almost jerked it back, but his touch was cool and solid and unspeakably soothing, gently pulling her fingers out of their knot and lying them flat against the marble-block hardness of his palm. "Killian, what are you doing?"

"Please." He opened his eyes, meeting hers with an expression so unutterably exhausted as to go far past any sufficiency of the word, worn through bone and into ash and dust, the shadow of death passing over the face of a man who had been dead in all ways that mattered for three centuries, had finally found a spark of hope, and was on the verge of having it crushed and broken for good. "It's laudable that you want to try, love, but I can't defeat him. I just learned that beyond any questioning. And I would rather die right now than turn into that monster again."

"Maybe you couldn't defeat him by almost becoming him," Emma said, looking down at their intertwined fingers. She was alarmed not that it didn't feel natural, but that it did, so greatly that it was summoning impolitic thoughts of what else of theirs might fit so well. "Maybe you need to become someone else instead. The opposite."

"What? A hero?" Killian looked as if she had just suggested that he run up Mount Everest naked. "Love, if that's what the future of the supernatural world rests on, I can inform you here and now, and with the greatest of confidence, that we are all utterly doomed. Who. . . who told you about my past with him, anyway? Regina?"

"Yes," Emma said cautiously, worried that he might take offense. "Not much. Just the bare bones. About what he did to the woman you loved, and your brother."

Killian's eyes took on that haunting thousand-yard stare again, seeing far past the walls and the roof, the room, the night, the century. "Milah," he said, after a very long moment. "Her name was Milah. His name was Liam."

Emma didn't want to keep apologizing, especially since she could tell he didn't want pity and there was nothing she could do or atone for, but the rawness in his voice made her wince. It felt like the cut of a whip into bare flesh, the realization of how deeply and how unshakably this man loved, how the strength of it could outlast even three centuries of grief and hatred and rage, how he had now lived lifetimes and lifetimes without them and never flagged in his devotion for a single day (or rather, night). She was possessed with a natural curiosity, but didn't want to push him, especially as she could tell it was the first time he had uttered those names aloud to someone else in who knew how long. She would guess, indeed, that she was the only person apart from Will in centuries. Killian could hardly fail to be thinking about them now, discovering that he had not avenged their murder after all, reliving the loss as if it was happening again before his eyes. It made her wonder, shy and scared, what it would feel like if that kind of love was given to her. If she could sink into it like a blanket, like a fortress, against all storms and tempests. She would barely know how to stand upright, how to take a step. How to walk out her door into the world again, and not be afraid.

Therefore, instead of tripping them up with the dangers of words, she just squeezed his hand. Some of the coiled tension in him seemed to ease, if not recede entirely, as he glanced up at her with a faint, tremulous smile. "I still can't figure out why you're not furious with me."

"We have enough enemies right now." Emma's voice was soft and sad. "I'm not going to make you into one too, for something you don't deserve. I need y – your help."

"For what catastrophically little use it will be to you, love, you have it. Always."

Another pause, this one more fraught, more charged with possibility, too tense, too close. If she was going to do anything other than what she wanted to do so sorely, now was the time. But she didn't, and she was so tired, and if nothing else, she could excuse this as just like any other anonymous night, giving into a moment of weakness and getting it out of her system and moving on. _A rolling stone gathers no moss._ At the very least, she felt safe with him, safe in this quiet moment, and given the magnitude of the danger they were in, that was no small thing.

Hesitant and clumsy as a schoolgirl, she let go of his hand, then slowly slid onto the bed next to him, stretching out and staring up at the same patch of ceiling that had so engrossed him. She could sense him, was more overwhelmingly aware of him than she had ever been of anyone, his scent and his weight and the dimensions of the space he occupied, the slight wrinkle of the covers beneath him and how his shirt was only half buttoned and it would not be terribly difficult to open it the rest of the way. All the things she had wondered about vampire sex and how it was supposed to compensate for all the other deficiencies, the way she had never found out and stubbornly stuck to humans for her occasional one-night stands, whenever the loneliness got too bad and she needed to scratch an itch. Still pretending she was one. Still wishing, more than anything, that she had never met Walsh and never been turned and never lost two-thirds of Henry's life and never given him up, either that Neal had never died or that she had never married him, that never, that never. _Second star to the right and straight onto morning._

Slowly, carefully, absurdly terrified that he would push her away or come to his senses and find her repellant or otherwise let her fall, that they would wake up and the dream would end, Emma put her hand on Killian's cheek. Leaned down, letting her hair fall loose around his face, and cautiously, lightly fitted their mouths together.

For a long moment he did not react, as if also presuming that she had accidentally made a terrible mistake by letting her face fall onto his face, must perforce realize it, and spring away with exclamations of disgust. But when she didn't, his hand floated up to the back of her neck as it had almost done last night in Henry's house, when they had been interrupted by that inopportune car alarm, and pulled her closer. His other arm linked around her waist, pulling her over on top of him, as the kiss started out as a chaste peck and then deepened all at once into a raw, hungry devouring, lips and teeth and tongue, a lightning bolt from the blue that left them both more than slightly stunned by the time they finally broke it. As she was still sprawled on his chest, Emma felt something small and hard dig into her solar plexus, and fumbled at it in confusion; it was a ring he was wearing on the chain around his neck, heavy and silver, set with a red garnet. From the look on his face when she touched it, she knew instantly it was something he hadn't intended her to see, and dropped it straightaway, still hot and bothered and breathless from the kiss. "I'm sorry, I didn't – I didn't mean – "

"It's – it's all right. It's not a state secret. I just. . . tonight of all nights, I. . . sorry, love." He tucked it back into his shirt. "Reminding me of what I lost, I suppose."

"Did it belong to – one of them?"

"Aye. My brother." Killian's voice caught ever so faintly. "He gave it to me a week before he died. An old family heirloom, supposedly from some Irish warlord ancestor of ours. Blessed by the fairies to bring long life, so the tall tale goes. I always thought if Liam had kept it. . . it's foolish, but still. . . then of course, it came to me, and it worked, in the most bloody perverted fashion imaginable. Long life is the one thing I have not lacked."

"It's not your fault," Emma said. "You didn't kill him because he gave you the ring."

"No," Killian said, so quietly that she wasn't sure she was meant to hear, even with vampire abilities. "I killed him because I couldn't get free of the silver cuff and save him. One simple thing. Child's play. And I couldn't do it."

There was a long, raw moment of silence as Emma looked down. "You loved him very much," she said at last, not a question but a statement, as if she could feel the echoes of it in her own soul. "You have to forgive yourself for it."

"More than I've ever loved anyone in the world." Killian had gone still, distant in memory. "More than I thought was even possible. Though of the two of us, he might have been the lucky one. He wasn't kept alive over centuries to be a monster and a slave and completely betray everything he ever believed in. Not that he would. He was too strong for that. At least his end was quick, I suppose. But I will never forgive myself."

Emma winced, having no easy words for that, no instant panacea. Instead she leaned forward, touched their noses together, and lightly kissed him again.

Killian let out a long, jagged sigh of pain and pleasure alike, hand tangling in her hair, pulling her mouth deeper into his again, some sweet, fleeting solace. His eyes remained closed, his brow furrowed, his touch as light as a snowflake, and she took it, whatever she could have. It was no more than kissing; she was too hesitant, and he was too heartbroken, to let down their defenses any further. But for those stolen moments on what had felt like the last night of their old lives, the fear that as immortals they nonetheless were running out of time, when they could no longer see through the glass darkly, they were together, and they were not afraid.

* * *

 Neither of them had intended to, but they were both so exhausted and drained, and Emma was already coming off one booster shot, that the next time they opened their eyes it was just shy of six PM, and they had spent the day in the splendid imitation of a corpse common to all non-vaccinated vampires. Emma was the first to stir, realizing that her face was pressed into Killian's shoulder and they had slept together in the literal sense if not the biblical, and scrambled upright, panicking – Henry had had no protection for the last twelve hours, what if someone had gotten to him? This could be a terrible mistake, all because she had been stupid enough to let herself go –

A brief investigation of the next-door room did not yield the person of her son, but there was a note left on the nightstand telling her not to worry, he was just stepping out to get some food and do some research. While this should have eased her nerves somewhat, there was no way to know when he had left it, and therefore how long he had been gone. _Careless, careless._ If only she was stronger, older, could resist sunlight better – she should have taken the second shot, regardless of the health risks – she wasn't safe, not even here –

Just then, arriving in the nick of time to prevent her from losing her mind completely, a key card buzzed in the lock and Henry, looking quite himself except for the still-visible scabs on his neck, stepped inside with a crumpled Subway bag and a sheaf of notes on looseleaf paper, clearly puzzled at her frantic expression. "Mom, what? Calm down, I'm fine."

"Thank God." Emma felt the relief shudder through her like a tidal wave. "How long have you been out?"

"I woke up around noon," Henry said. "Then I had to do some serious research. Plenty to report, so why don't you sit down?"

"Sure. Let me just go see if Killian's awake, then you don't have to repeat yourself."

Henry gave her an odd look. "Him? Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"Yes," Emma said, confused and taken aback. "Why not?"

"I just don't think we can trust his judgment when it comes to this. It's clear he has no sense of restraint or perspective where Gold's involved, will probably flip out and do something horrible, and it's best if we weren't in the way when he does. And he didn't actually succeed taking him down last time, so it's not like he can tell us anything we don't already know." Henry shrugged. "Sorry. I hope you weren't leading him on or getting his hopes up. He's no good to us."

This was such a strange thing for him to say, after their conversation back in Boston where Henry had encouraged her to open herself up a bit, to give Killian a chance, that Emma simply gaped. "What do you – Henry, you can't mean that. Surely you don't – you said I should – "

"Well," Henry said. "Honestly, there's a difference between saying something in the abstract, and then seeing it in reality and realizing it's a bad idea. Remember, you don't have a great track record in picking men. Now do you?"

Horrified and hurt, Emma opened and shut her mouth, struggling to think what she had done to set off this sudden change of heart. Then a voice said from the doorway, "Bloody hell, lad, that's out of line. Apologize to your mum immediately."

Henry glanced over at Killian with a sneer. "And who are you? My father? I don't think so."

"Henry, what on earth happ – "

"Wait a minute," Killian said. "I might know what's going on. The first time a human is fed from by a vampire, they can be temporarily imprinted with their personality. A sort of scent mark, to indicate possession. He may be suffering from, to put it rather crudely, a Cruella hangover."

Henry glared at him. "Typical of you to think something's wrong with me because I don't want you sniffing around my mother. You're a pathetic pretty boy, and I don't want – "

Killian rolled up his sleeves, cracked his knuckles, stepped forward, and marched Henry into the bathroom, wherein he shut the door. Emma therefore did not see exactly what happened, but it involved a lot of cold water, splashing, Henry yelling, steely-voiced injunctions from Killian, and something that sounded briefly like a fistfight. Five minutes later they reemerged, Henry rather damp and quite chastened, glasses askew as he pushed them straight and shuffled his feet. "I. . . I'm not sure what that was about. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Emma said. "I probably should have guessed something like that could happen. Do you feel better now?"

"Well, aside from like a drowned rat who got punched in the nose, yes," Henry said wryly. "But I do have a lot to report, so let's get started."

Emma and Killian sat down as Henry arranged his notes on the TV stand and stood forth as if giving a lecture. "So," he began. "The _universus._ It's not something Gold invented – in fact, it's connected to the very origin of vampires in the Book of the Dead. It may be a mis-transliteration or derivation from _Osiris,_ the Egyptian god of the afterlife, death, and rebirth, and thus the ruler over the Book of the Dead's subjects. And that book's primary author was an Egyptian slave magician named. . ." Henry paused for effect. "Merlin."

Emma and Killian exchanged thunderstruck glances. Clearly pleased by this, Henry went on, "As far as I can tell, he wrote the Book of the Dead with totally good intentions, to restore life and grant immortality. It was something he had already perfected on himself, but he couldn't figure out how to give it to anyone else. Furthermore, the pharaohs were not pleased with the fact that he kept testing it on his fellow slaves, rather than them, and long story short, Merlin had to flee Egypt with his copy of the Book. He eventually made his way to Roman Britain, where he joined Arthur's court, met a young woman, and fell in love. You can probably guess her name."

"Nimue." Killian's lips went tight. "And I'm also guessing she was the one who perverted the magic of the Book of the Dead to make it create vampires. The mother of darkness."

"Got it in one," Henry said. "Nimue was the one who finally got the Book to work, to be able to give the gift of immortality, but she did it in such a terrible way that it birthed a race of monsters instead, cursed to drink the blood of other humans forever to pay the price of eternal life. It broke Merlin's heart. She and her fledglings took over Camelot, destroyed Arthur's kingdom, and established basically everything that we know and expect for vampires today."

That was quite a lot to take in at once, and Emma and Killian sat in silence. Then Killian said, "So where does the _universus_ come into this?"

"I think it was Merlin's escape hatch," Henry said. "Osiris, after all, is the merciful judge of the dead, the one who weighs the person's heart on his scales and decides whether they're worthy to share in eternal life. It was his way of trying to fix the damage Nimue did. Someone who would, to cop a phrase, bring balance to the Force. One of his gifts was seeing the future, and he left some kind of encoded riddle or epigram hinting at the _universus'_ identity. And, well, because of however he's translated it, Gold believes it's you."

"So supposedly that makes me some kind of chosen one," Emma said, feeling rather faint. Apparently that Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker comparison was more apt than she ever knew. "A savior."

"If he's right." Henry shuffled his notes. "So you can see how this is shaping up. Gold wants you in order to grant himself ultimate power. Naomi, if she's Nimue – and honestly, I have a bad feeling that she is – wants you because you're the only person capable of taking her down forever. Arthur wants you so he can force you to rebuild Camelot and make him king again, which in this case means over the whole supernatural world and probably the human one as well. Zelena – well, she's crazier than Courtney Love on crystal meth, so who knows, but probably one of the above. So. Yeah."

"Wouldn't it be awkward if they read the hieroglyphs wrong, and the _universus_ was actually my next door neighbor, Anna?" Emma cracked feebly, since it felt like the only thing she could do in order to keep herself together upon revelation that she was the (possible) fulfillment of a prophecy thousands of years old, and the person that, no big deal, fucking _Merlin_ had wanted to fix the entire screwed-up existence of vampires in the first place. By what, dying? Committing ritual hara-kiri to nobly rid the world of their shadowy, bloodsucking scourge? Maybe she just wasn't enough of a good person, but that was not an option that appealed to her. If she had to kill every vampire on the face of the earth to end up saving humanity, how would that make her any different from Gold, Nimue, Zelena, and the rest of those who seemed so completely happy to murder their way to ultimate power? She didn't want this great and terrible of a destiny, had never asked for it. The idea that she could be the eye around which this entire storm spun. . . no, there was definitely a mistake. There had to be. No sorcerer in his right mind, clairvoyance or not, would put this in her hands.

She turned to Killian, hoping for him to say that this was probably just some kind of clerical error. That Gold, in his zeal for finishing what he had started, was latching onto anyone who even vaguely fit the requirement. "This can't be right, don't you think? It can't be."

"I don't know, love." He looked back at her solemnly. "It would explain a lot."

"But if I _am –_ why all this effort? Why not just grab me, mesmer me out of my mind, and make me do whatever they wanted? Why all this manipulation, this mystery, this – everything?"

"Because they can't," Henry said. "It's simple. If they artificially coerce you into doing it in any way, it won't work. It has to be something you choose. That's been the issue all along here: consent. Free will. The reason vampires outlawed hunting humans and feeding on and turning them without permission, the invitation protocol, _everything._ Even someone as old and evil as Gold or Nimue can't break those laws. That's why they still need you. That's why Zelena tried to isolate you and make you feel as if she was the only person you could turn to, with the Harvard attacks. That's why Arthur took you to his five-star hotel and plied you with Old One blood and tried to be your best friend. That's your power, Emma. You can say no."

"Too much to hope for, I don't know, a laser-shooting shark sidekick?" Emma rubbed her face. "But if they're willing to destroy anything and everything, go as far as they have to in order to blackmail me into agreeing to help one of them. . . that would work, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Henry said. "That's the minor problem. You can refuse them all you want, but in the end, if they're willing to cause enough damage, it won't matter very much."

Emma stared at the floor, feeling utterly hopeless. "Then we're screwed either way, aren't we."

Nobody had anything to say to that, and a heavy silence hung over the room. Then Emma's phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see a text from Regina. _In parking lot. Come down._

This took her by surprise, as she hadn't really known whether the vampire queen of Boston would come through or not, and glad of the distraction, she stood up. "Regina apparently decided she was coming after all. Maybe she'll have a few ideas?" She didn't think so, but it was better than sitting in a Yonkers motel contemplating the ultimate futility of existence and the yawning mouth of the Nietzschean abyss. "Let's go."

The three of them got up and trudged into the elevator, took it to the ground floor, then stepped out into the night to see Regina's black Mercedes parked by the heavy trees. Spotting them coming, she opened the door and swung out, looking less than her usual impeccable self; she had clearly also taken another daylight shot in order to get down here as fast as possible. "Well, Killian, I see you're upright. That's more than I was expecting, to be honest."

Killian rolled his eyes. "Careful, love, I might slip and fall in all the sisterly affection pouring off you. Hopefully you brought more than whatever it fondly pleases you to call witty repartee?"

"Can it, you two." Emma stepped forward. "Regina, I didn't expect – I mean, well. . . thanks for coming."

"I'm probably going to regret this," Regina said. "In fact, I already do. But if Gold _is_ back, I have to admit, I wouldn't mind a shot at him myself. The least you can do is stop walking around unarmed like naïve idiots. Here."

With that, she led them around to the trunk, and popped it open to reveal a veritable mobile armory, clearly the entire contents of the locked cupboards in her cellar: throwing stakes, silver knives, swords, hooks, and other nasty-looking implements of all descriptions, her crossbow with its silver-tipped arrows, projectiles of salt and holy water (the equivalent of tear gas and mace for vampires), vials of wolfsbane, revolvers with silver bullets, bandoliers, and in short, just about every kind of belligerent implement with which to fettle oneself against a large quantity of deranged and power-hungry supernaturals. It wouldn't fix everything, nor was there any guarantee it would work at all, but it did make Emma feel vastly better to see it, and she had to bite her lip hard to keep her composure. "This means a lot to me, Regina."

"Make sure I get that witan seat, and we'll call it even." Regina strapped on her crossbow and quiver, as the rest of them dug in to equip themselves likewise. Killian took several knives, a hook, the throwing stakes, and a sword, while Emma took two guns. Henry, for his part, looked rather intimidated at his choices, remarking that he wasn't sure grandmaster status on _Assassin's Creed_ had prepared him for this. Indeed, he seemed almost hesitant.

Killian glanced at him. "What is it, lad? I promise, you shouldn't have to worry about the Cruella imprinting again, it does wear off. Nasty side effect, but no harm done."

"Actually," Henry said, picking up a spear and testing its balance, flipping it, and turning around to face the vampire. "Yeah. About that. When you said it was probably what had happened to me?"

"Aye?" Killian frowned.

"Well," Henry said. "You were wrong." And staked him.


	14. Chapter 14

It was in that one frozen, uncomprehending moment, as Killian staggered and collapsed, as Henry stood over him like a victorious general planting the flag, that time turned strange and stretched-out for Emma – the way it sometimes did when a vampire was caught up in the heat of battle, when moving at normal speed looked like a stop-motion film, ineffectually and ludicrously slow. She didn't know what came over her except for that in the next instant she was lunging, Regina was yelling and raising her crossbow, and Henry sprang away with a dexterity that – no offense to the fitness regimes of thirty-something English professors – he definitely did not possess in the usual course of nature. At that something clicked in Emma's brain, remembering how the human drones among the pack that had attacked her in London had been able to perform similar feats of vampiric ability, and, panicking, she knocked Regina's arm down just in time. "No! No, don't shoot! He's – he's been mesmered, somebody's controlling him!"

"What an indecorous way to put it," Henry said, brushing off his jacket. "Though not, I suppose, entirely inaccurate. No need to blame me, Miss Swan. I told you not to make this messy."

Emma stared at him in complete, paralyzing horror, seeing her son's face and hearing her son's voice, but recognizing beyond all doubt whose words were actually speaking. That, however, wasn't something she could presently begin to process or fathom, and she had a far more pressing concern. Leaving Regina to hold her crossbow grimly trained on him, warning the demon against one wrong move, she whirled around and ran to Killian. "Oh God, what did he –oh God – "

The stake had just missed his heart, but it didn't look good. A pool of dark crimson blood was spreading beneath him, and he jerked and gasped in choking spasms, twitching like an insect driven through with a pin, making a noise of agonizing pain as Emma knelt down and frantically tried to pry the stake out without causing any more damage. Oh God, no. Henry – or rather, Gold working through Henry – had chosen his weapon carefully; it was cedar, the kind of wood that did vampires the most damage. Something to do with Christ and the cross, Emma didn't remember what, and didn't care. She ripped it out, leaving a ragged, gaping hole in Killian's chest, and cradled his head between her hands, trying to get his eyes to focus. "No. No, no no no no no no no. Don't, don't, don't. Killian, no. No no no no."

"How sweet," Henry said. Still held at the business end of Regina's crossbow, he made no attempt to come nearer, but the gloating in his voice was brimming over. "Not very pleasant, is it? Being staked with cedar? That's what he did to me and left me out in the sun, to cause me as much pain and misery as possible. And yet, conversely, I am the only vampire who has ever been known to survive such a wound. There could be hope for him if you do what I say."

"Wh – what? Who's that talking?" Killian's glazed eyes sharpened in fear as he struggled to lift his head, then fell heavily backward, and she caught him, trying to hold him still. "No – don't listen, I don't care what they're saying, it's not worth it, don't listen – "

"Tick tock," Henry said. "I was a hundred and fifty years older than he is, I had performed any number of rituals to increase my strength, and I lasted several days. He, on the other hand, has hours. If that. You'd better make your choice, dearie."

 _No._ Was it Gold, then, who had fed them all that information about the _universus_ through Henry, made it clear that while she could refuse to help him, the consequences would just keep getting worse and worse? That if they – if he – was willing to cause enough damage, which he plainly was, there would be vanishingly little point in doing so? That he would just keep killing and burning his way through the rest of the world to get to her, until she could no longer tolerate the scale of the damage being inflicted on her behalf, and bowed to serve him? At that moment, Emma wanted to scream. Whoever Merlin had been, whatever he had tried, he had done an epically terrible job at setting up the _universus_ as a balance or correction to the dark side of the Force, neglecting to give her a single useful power or relevance or way to stand against the monstrous evil that now watched her with casual unconcern, possessing her son's mind to mortally wound Killian's body. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair._

"I'm waiting," Henry repeated. "Oh, and Regina, while it's lovely to see you again, you'll want to consider your place in this whole affair as well. I always did think you had far more potential than Zelena. My favorite daughter, the one with such promise, and we all know Cora never saw it. Don't we finally want to fix that little green mistake, once and for all?"

Regina's finger tightened on the crossbow trigger. "Shut up."

"Go ahead and shoot him," Henry said. "You know it won't hurt me."

Emma only barely heard this. Her gaze was fixated on Killian; his eyelashes were fluttering, his face a pale white, blue veins starting to show in his throat and cheeks. His head fell onto her chest, even as she was desperately trying to hold him upright, and at that, she knew she couldn't do it. Couldn't sit here and let him die in her arms, even if it might protect her from whatever terrible fate Gold surely had in mind, and if there was any chance whatsoever that Merlin had known what he was doing (otherwise, to say the least, all the stories would be a disappointment) there had to be some sudden flash of power. Had to be.

"Fine." She jerked her head up, eyes burning. "What the hell do you want?"

Henry giggled, in such perfect echo of that eerie titter she'd heard from Gold last night at the library that it made her hackles stand. "Well, we're going to take a little family drive. All of you, get in the car – Regina, dearie, if you'd be so kind? I'll handle the rest."

Staring at him as if she wanted nothing more than to turn into a dragon, roast him slowly, then devour him piece by excruciating piece, Regina reached into her pocket and threw her car keys at Henry's face at ninety miles an hour (the Mets could have used her for bullpen help). He caught them adroitly out of the air, then strolled around to the driver's side as Emma struggled to lift Killian; even with supernatural strength, he was a dead weight, and Regina came around, hefted his feet, and shoved him into the back seat of the Mercedes as if putting a roast in the oven. Despite this, and all her protestations that she didn't care an inch for her useless brother and was merely concerned with how much of a mess she would have to pick up, Emma noticed that Regina had not for an instant considered or suggested just letting him die. She didn't know the full extent of Regina's past with Gold, other than that it was probably also horrible, but he was still her sire, and that bond of compulsion and loyalty wasn't easily broken. It had taken all of Emma's strength to fight back against it with Zelena.

She slid into the back as well, holding Killian's head in her lap, as Regina got into the passenger seat, Henry started the engine, and pulled out. He was in a ghoulishly cheerful mood (no, she reminded herself, Henry currently wasn't anything except a prisoner in his own head, watching Gold pull the strings and forced to observe himself being responsible for driving them directly into mortal danger). "Oh my, the Eighties?" he asked breezily, hearing what was playing on Regina's tape deck. "Really?"

Regina opened her mouth, perhaps to say that she liked eighties music, but then snapped it shut, unwilling to be drawn in and put off her guard like this. "Stuff it, Gold. Whenever we get to wherever you're hiding, I'm going to kill you."

"That would be a massively stupid idea," Henry said, changing lanes without looking or signaling and blithely ignoring the laying-on of the horn behind him (thus, possessed by a vampire dark lord or not, exactly the same as any other driver in New York). "Even for you. Haven't any of you worked it out? You can't kill me in the way you can any other vampire. I don't care about all your toys in the trunk. Keep your heads down and do what I say, and I might see fit to reward you. If not. . . " He shrugged. "After this long, I have an excellent imagination. Not in any way you'd enjoy."

Regina said nothing, visibly seething, as Emma bent over Killian and tried to make sure he was still there. She had wadded up her jacket and pressed it to his chest, trying to stanch the bleeding, but that wasn't as much of a concern; the poison of the cedar had already done its work, and the torn edges of his shirt clung in sucking shreds to the wound, turning her stomach. "Hey," she whispered. "Stay with me, all right? We're going to figure this out. We're going to help you."

"No. . . don't. . . " He grimaced, barely strong enough to get the words out, and she had to lean close to hear them. "Don't. . . Emma, love, don't go near him, don't. . . I'm begging you, don't. Nothing's worth – letting him rise – to full power again – please don't, please just let me die. . . "

Emma closed her eyes briefly, shuddering, as tears overflowed beneath her lashes. With a violent effort of will, she forced them back, refusing to let them fall where Henry/Gold could see how much pain this was causing her, how completely he had managed to get her under his thumb and from the one frontier she thought she was the safest. Gold must have gotten to Henry somehow when he went out, while she and Killian were asleep and unable to protect him, mesmered him so neatly and completely that she hadn't noticed a thing wrong, and when she had, thought it was the Cruella hangover and it was fixed. She didn't know if this meant Gold was also responsible for sending the vampires after her in London, or if it was Arthur, probably intending to swoop in and fix the problem, earn her trust by saving her, just as he had done with Henry and the so-called werewolves in Boston. Probably the latter. But Killian had pre-empted Arthur by getting there first, by tearing his way through a pack of them, letting her feed off him, taking her home, fighting to find her when Zelena kidnapped her, then going to Cruella upon realizing she was trapped with Gold – over and over, befriending Henry, making himself such a part of her life in the short time she'd known him that she'd already forgotten what it was like when he wasn't there. And this was different than merely not wanting someone caught in the crossfire to die on her behalf – which, she had to shamefully admit, she might have considered if it was someone else. But it wasn't, and that must be exactly why Gold had picked him, aside from their centuries of old hatred. Because asking Emma if she would let Killian die was the same as asking if she wanted to die herself, and there was simply no other option than that he live.

She wasn't quite sure how long they drove, too absorbed with watching his slow, shallow breaths and making sure there was another; when badly wounded, vampires became more like humans in their need to struggle for survival, old bodily impulses kicking in even if they'd been long disused. At any rate, it wasn't longer than twenty or thirty minutes. But then they were slowing, pulling up in front of a splendid old mansion in the pricey Westchester suburb of Scarsdale, a bedroom community to feed executives with seven-figure salaries into their important Manhattan jobs while not obliging them to live among the hoi polloi. The chandelier in the portico was on as they drove up, and Gold was standing on the front steps, waiting for them, leaning on his cane like a warrior on his sword. His shadow twisted off his feet, deep and black, almost beastly, as Henry stopped the car. "Good evening, all. Isn't this a marvelous family reunion?"

Regina gaped at him; even first being told and then receiving unassailable proof of his continued existence clearly wasn't the same as seeing him again in the flesh. "It's. . . actually you?"

"Indeed." Gold spread his hands. "The one and only. Accept no imitations."

"So you're the one responsible for the Columbia attacks?"

"Still impossible to escape your butter-knife mind, I see. Indeed, I have largely been residing here, as I am far too old to appreciate life in a dormitory. Unless, of course, I need to get to the library quickly to discourage any ill-advised investigations."

Regina's eyes narrowed. "How?" Even moving at vampire speed, it would take at least fifteen or twenty minutes to get from Scarsdale to Morningside Heights.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know." Gold was almost rubbing his hands. "That, and all the other things I've done. It's not too late, Regina. Return to my side and become my apprentice again, and we can complete everything that was interrupted."

"You really must think I'm stupid," Regina said flatly. "Wanting ultimate power for yourself means by necessity there's none left for anyone else."

"That's because you _are_ stupid, dearie." Gold's fangs flashed in a malicious little grin. "But unless you want the rapscallion to bleed to death all over your luxury car, which really would be the devil to get out, we should get on with it. Miss Swan, bring him, won't you?"

The last thing Emma wanted to do was get out of the car, even knowing what nonexistent protection it was, and walk into his lair. But Henry had popped his seatbelt, coming around to open the door and haul them out, and she pushed him away, taking charge of Killian herself. He was barely conscious, but at the sight of Gold standing there right in front of him, the slit of blue under his eyelashes turned jet-black in an instant. He bared his fangs, snarling, and broke free too fast to see, even as badly wounded as he was, but Gold made a negligent gesture as if swatting a fly, and Killian went crashing backwards, almost falling again before Emma swooped in to catch him. "Thought we might have to deal with something to that reckless nature. You haven't changed at all, have you? Still a monster."

Killian was groaning and swearing in breathless, incoherent bursts as Emma held him up, his blood soaking into her jacket and jeans. Henry brusquely threw Killian's other arm around his shoulder and started for the door of the house, leaving her no choice but to trot to keep up, as Gold flung it open with a flourishing, theatrical gesture. "My dear friends, please do enter."

Inside, the place was lavishly appointed: mahogany paneling, chandeliers, carpets, cabinets and heavy scrolled furniture with brocade upholstery, crystal and china and framed oil portraits. Gold led them through to a large, empty ballroom at the back, with veranda doors that opened onto an expansive, landscaped yard. "Had to find one of those since I started owning a dog," he explained. "He's barely house-trained, and all of this was, I presume, very expensive. No sense in ruining it."

"You presume," Regina said coldly. "Murdered the previous inhabitants, I imagine?"

"Put him humanely out of his misery, once he'd told me a few interesting things about his master." Gold indicated a couch draped with an old sheet, which he had clearly prepared in advance of their arrival. "Put the patient there."

Emma and Henry heaved Killian onto it, Emma looking for a pillow or anything else to prop under his head, as if rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic was going to do a whole fuck of a lot of good. She stood next to him, refusing to budge, as at that moment, Gold strategically let the mesmer slip and Henry blinked, stared, rubbed his face, and then assumed an expression of dawning and utter horror. "What the – what the _hell_ just – Jesus, you bastard, did you just – what did you make me – "

"Nothing you didn't want to do," Gold said. "Everything you said was how you really feel, deep down. It must stick in your craw to see your mother thinking she can just move on to the next in a succession of no-good boyfriends, after her bad judgment in the last case was why she left you behind in the first place. So difficult when we have to parent our parents, isn't it?"

"Eat shit," Henry said. "You don't know a thing about me _or_ my mother."

"Oho. Feisty." Gold raised an eyebrow. "I'll leave a gentleman of your considerable intellect to appreciate the circumstances and decide whether that's really a good idea. In the meantime, Miss Swan, this is what they like to call the moment of truth. Are you going to help me or not?"

Emma stared him down, wishing for some dread dark powers of her own. If the only thing she had going for her was the right of refusal, she had to choose her words very carefully. "I'll listen to what you have to say. But you have to give Killian the antidote first."

Gold smirked, apparently catching on to her attempted lawyerly evasion. "Not an answer, dearie. Will you help me, yes or no?"

Emma gritted her teeth. The word felt torn out of her, raw and furious. "Yes."

"Wise decision. As such, I will administer half the cure now and the rest at the end, once we've finished our work for the night – a project as big as this, it has to be taken in stages. The early bird gets the worm, yes, but the second mouse gets the cheese. As for you two – " he glanced at Regina and Henry – "interfere in any way, and I'll kill you both. Clear?"

Henry opened his mouth, shot a sidelong look at Regina who in turn was glaring pointedly at him, and something brief and unspoken passed between them that Emma couldn't quite catch. She wondered if it might have been a suicide pact, that if things went too far off the rails they were going to accept the chance of death if needed to stop Gold, and felt a fresh sheaf of icy panic avalanche down her spine. If he'd noticed it, if he. . . but she could still refuse, stand back and watch Killian die slowly and agonizingly on the couch, watched over by the pitiless eyes of his resurrected mortal enemy. And then watch Regina and Henry die the same way. And then the next. As far down the line as Gold needed to go, in order to break her, and he didn't need to go far at all. There was no way out.

Seeing that he had them under control, their will broken, Gold's satisfied smirk widened. Then he clapped his hands. "The first dose, if you please."

Emma glanced around, wondering who on earth he was speaking to, before a door opened at the side of the room. A man emerged – a man she recognized. The one who had been unconscious at her feet in the library after she silvered him, the werewolf. Gold's slave, the one Cruella wanted to make into a rug. He was dressed now, but his eyes still had that same vacant, beaten stare, empty and dazed. He reached his master and held out a small vial.

"Well, it doesn't do me any good, does it?" Gold complained. "Go on. Give it to him."

The man turned around slowly, as if unused to walking on two feet instead of four – if he'd been in wolf-form for a while, and clearly not in his right mind, it must feel clumsy and strange. But that brought his face into full view in the overhead light, and Emma heard Killian Jones make the worst noise she had heard from any creature ever, living or dead. She stared at him and didn't understand – then looking madly between them, that strange moment of recognition she'd had upon seeing the werewolf's human face, thinking she'd met him before, the blue eyes and the terrible scars –

She wanted to make it stop. She wanted to do anything at all, anywhere, to make it stop. But she couldn't. She could just look from one face to the other as the werewolf drew closer with slow, heavy steps, stood above the wounded vampire, and held out the vial.

Killian didn't make a single move to take it. He didn't breathe or flicker or turn a hair or even seem to exist. The only sound was the monstrously loud tick-tock of the clock on the mantle.

In a voice summoned up from the depths of hell itself, Killian breathed, _"Liam?"_

* * *

The silence went on and kept on going, a runaway train, overpowering and echoing, until it was almost crushing them. Not even Gold made a move to break the trance between the two, as the werewolf – Liam Jones, condemned to the one terrible fate his little brother had given thanks for him escaping – stared at Killian in pained confusion. He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a bee. "I kn. . . . do I kn. . . know you?"

Killian couldn't answer. His mouth was opening and shutting, forming useless, empty shapes, a numb litany of impossible denial. He reached out, hand hovering over Liam's, then jerked it away, as if he couldn't bear to touch, not knowing whether it would be better or worse for it to be some kind of impossible fever dream. Liam regarded him in that same hazy incomprehension, clearly not understanding why the half-dead vampire was having such a strong reaction to his presence, or anything apart from the fact that he had to obey his master. He pushed Killian flat, thumbed open the vial, and poured it down his throat.

There was a split second of silence, and then Killian howled in pain, the wound smoking and spitting as it knitted together – barely – at top speed, leaving a fragile scab that could be broken again with too much exertion. Too much exertion, evidently, being exactly what Killian had in mind. He came up swinging, eyes pitch black, burning off the couch like a meteor, and went for Gold just as Liam, sensing the danger, whirled and shifted into a wolf in the middle of his leap. The next instant they were rolling around in a fury of blows and yelps too fast to see, Gold observed the spectacle with thinly concealed delight, and in that tiny, crucial moment, he was distracted, had dropped his guard. Emma caught Regina and Henry's eyes, they knew that it was now or never and death was probably the least terrible outcome at this point, and went for it.

Emma and Regina sprinted straight for Gold, tackling him at once from either side as Regina bit violently into his neck, Emma grabbed one of the silver knives that had fallen from Killian's jacket in the kerfuffle, and decided now was as good a time as any to test the truth of Gold's boasts about being invulnerable to it, stabbing any part of him she could reach over and over. Henry, meanwhile, was coming to the realization that trying to break a vampire and werewolf apart would go spectacularly poorly for him, and he then realized something else and went belting out of the room. That was fine, Emma wanted him a long way from here, as far as he could – but if Gold had already mesmered him once, it would be very easy for him to do it again – it was very possible that they would never be safe with Henry around, not until this was over, if this was ever over, if it was even –

Gold was yelling and thrashing, still alive but definitely hurt, as Emma kept stabbing, it barely feeling like sufficient outlet for her rage. Then as he stopped moving quite as much, she decided that Regina had it under control, pulled back, and threw herself straight into the middle of the Jones brothers' very, very awful family reunion. Liam rolled away with a grunt and a thud in one direction, Killian in the other, and both of them hit old and valuable antiques hard enough to make them rattle. Before they could resume where they had left off, Emma grabbed hold of each of them by the collar and screamed, _"STOP!"_

Killian stopped short as his vengeance-maddened brain slowly took in her presence, some of the blackness receding from his eyes. Liam, meanwhile, was straining and snapping to get to him, having turned back into a human but still under the compulsion to obey orders – yet as there was a squelchy noise from Gold, as Regina finally wrestled him into unconsciousness, the mesmer broke. He blinked, his blue eyes slowly drifting into focus, and then, like Henry coming out of the same spell, into utter and absolute horror. "K. . . " He struggled for it, couldn't get his abused tongue around it. "Kil. . . ?"

This sound, this faint, gasping fragment of his name, made Killian freeze, as if a giant hand had reached from the heavens and snapped his spine in half. He was bleeding from the stake wound again, but he clearly didn't notice or care, didn't feel it or anything. At last, he nodded.

Liam stared at him, still unable to put the pieces together, sort them out from the vast, chaotic junkyard of his mind. Emma wondered what awful thing Gold had done, pulling him out of the grave. She was vaguely aware that there was a statute of limitations for after-death transformations: you still could turn a person into a vampire or werewolf if they had not yet been dead for three days. That must be what Gold had done, killing Liam and then deciding to keep him around as the perfect plant among the wolves, a slave and a spy. Since he had already been bitten countless times by the werewolves as they attacked him in the first place, it would have been easy. Give him injections of Old One blood, or feed on him semi-regularly, and he wouldn't even age; after all, drones liked to volunteer to be drones because being fed on by a vampire gave you some of that same long life. And so Liam must have passed the centuries in the same thrall as his brother, from the other side of the supernatural coin, and neither of them had ever known.

"Killian?" Liam said again. _"Killian?"_

Unable to lift his head, to even look him in the eye, Killian nodded once more.

Liam made that same terrible noise that Killian had upon first seeing him, and Emma dodged out of the way just in time, as they crashed together again – but not in battle. They clawed at each other without a word, eyes closed, shoulders shaking in silent spasms, until at last Liam pushed Killian flat, shifted into a wolf again, and began licking the stake wound with his rough tongue; evidently werewolves had the same kind of healing ability in that regard as vampires. Killian uttered a strangled noise that might almost suggest he was ticklish, hand coming up to clutch and caress the fur of Liam's grizzled head. As she watched them, Emma was willing to bet that this was possibly the first time in history, or close to it, that a werewolf had voluntarily saved a staked vampire, and that, despite everything, gave her a brief, wild flash of hope. Gold had no idea what he had unleashed. All-powerful or otherwise, he couldn't have seen this coming.

Killian lay still as Liam worked, though a look at his face made clear the scale of the turbulence raging inside him. Here with the brother he had so loved and never forgiven himself for being unable to save, who wasn't dead after all but had spent just as long as Gold's slave, as said brother took care of him, put him first, protected him as always despite his own damage, while Killian must think he did not merit a remote instant of continuing attention or loyalty. He closed his eyes, fighting a complete breakdown, until Liam, having licked the wound into a small patch of tender pink skin, nosed him and whined. He evidently found it much easier to express himself as a wolf than as a human. After what he must have been through, no wonder.

This nearly did Killian in altogether, but he managed to scratch Liam's ears and give him the faintest glimpse of a quivering smile. Then his eyes flickered to where Gold's prone form was still being kept vigilant watch over by Regina. "Is he. . .?"

"No. Emma wounded him enough with the silver that he'll be out a while, but he's not dead." Her brows drew down into a dark scowl. "We need to find some way to restrain him before he wakes up."

To judge from the look on Killian's face, all they had to do was get the large wolf off his chest and he would spare them the trouble, but Emma shook her head at him. If nothing else, it did appear that Gold had made himself invulnerable to the common methods of vampire killing, and since Killian had just been healed from one potentially fatal wound, it was a bit jumping the gun to potentially set himself up for another. She knew, though, that when Gold woke up, his control over Liam and likely Henry as well would return, and Killian wouldn't be able to stand watching his brother lose himself again, transformed back into Gold's mindless, monstrous slave. Killian himself was barely holding off the blood madness as it was. Going through that again might well completely snap his sanity and turn him back into the beast he so feared.

Right then. They had to do – something. Emma opened her mouth, with no idea where they planned to start, when Henry's voice said from the doorway, "Guys? You better come see this."

They looked around in startlement, as he was beckoning them urgently toward something he had found elsewhere in the house. They were briefly at a loss as to what to do with Gold, until Emma stabbed him several more times with the silver dagger, hoping to add an extra few hours to his nap and feeling that he deserved it anyway. They dragged him to the wall and tied him with curtain cords – which normally would be totally pointless at containing a vampire, but since he would be very low on strength when he first woke up, would hopefully do as a temporary measure. Then, with Liam still in wolf form, they cautiously followed Henry down the steps into the mansion's cellar, on edge every instant for more drones to come pouring out at them. Emma felt a flash of mistrust, wondering if Gold had set up some contingency plan to keep Henry mesmered even if he himself got knocked out, but this was, for better or worse, actually him. He led them through a door and into a long, dim subterranean chamber beyond, to the cage that sat at the end of it. Inside, watching them with strange, starry eyes, sat a handsome young man with cocoa-colored skin and short black curls, clad in the tattered remnants of a beautiful robe. As they drew nearer, he inclined his head. "Emma Swan. It's good to meet you at last."

"What the – ?" Emma turned around to stare wildly at Regina and Killian, as if either of them would know better was going on, but they looked just as lost. "Have we – have we met?"

"Not in the flesh." She was wrong, she thought. He looked barely older than her, forever frozen at twenty-eight, but that weight, that strangeness, in his eyes was like nothing she'd ever seen, until she realized that he was in fact older than all of them combined, old enough that time must pass in great swathes as little more than a blink, barely regarded or noted or remembered in turn. Not a vampire, but a pure immortal, stronger than anything she had ever felt, and with that, somehow, it fell into place. _No._ But yes. Barely more impossible than anything else thus far.

She opened and shut her mouth once more, just for good measure. _"Merlin?"_

"Indeed." He smiled wryly. "What year is it? Have they invented Fangd yet?"

"You foresaw _Fangd?"_ Emma gaped at him, dimly remembering that Henry/Gold had said that Merlin could see the future, and that this was how he had left some hint as to her (if it was her) identity. "Not, I don't know, whether there's going to be another immortal war or how to kill Gold or what the hell you were doing making me into your Little Miss Fix-It?"

"I see many things," Merlin said. "Predicting the future is a notoriously difficult and unforgiving business. So while I have seen all those and more, I could not say which is the right one, or if such a path even exists."

"Well, aren't you just overflowing with boundless mystical wisdom," Killian growled. "Do you have a way to help us kill that bastard or not?"

"I might. But I am powerless locked in here. That's how he's been acquiring most of his ability – feeding on me, as a stopgap as he assembles all the elements for the ritual to make him able to do it in his own right. You have to find a way to get me out."

"And I don't suppose Gold just left the key lying somewhere around here?"

"It's not that kind of cage. No key in existence could open it."

"Bloody hell," Killian remarked. "That's impressive. You're actually less useful in person than relayed third-hand through the words of an unwilling drone who only knows half the story."

Henry coughed, glancing guilty at him. "I – no hard feelings for the staking, right? You know I wouldn't have done that if I, well. If I had any choice about it."

"No, of course not. Why would I blame you for the fact that he's the bloody worst?" Killian rubbed at the healed spot with a wince. "I may feel that for a while, though."

"So we have to get you out somehow," Emma said to the trapped sorcerer, since stating the obvious was all she could really do at this point. "Who put you in there in the first place? Gold?"

"No," Merlin said. "You will have heard of her. A woman named Nimue."

There was an uncomfortable silence as portentous looks were exchanged. Finally Emma said, "This may or may not come as a surprise to you, with the seeing-the-future thing you have going on, but we're pretty sure she's alive and in Boston, working with Regina's sister – actual sister, not blood sister – Zelena. Or at least, that's what Zelena thinks. Who knows if she is or not. I think I met her at Harvard. Young, beautiful, dark hair, smells like roses?"

"That would be her." There was a faint trace of wistfulness in Merlin's voice, as even though it must have been almost two millennia since they had seen each other, since she had destroyed Camelot and imprisoned him and given rise to a race of monsters, he still missed her, just a bit. That ghost, that memory of what they must once have been, with all the world before them and no possibility out of their reach, the dazzling future they must have intended to build together. "What about Arthur?"

"He is. . ." Emma tried to think of a suitable way to put this. "I don't think he's given up on getting back everything he lost, now that he must know who I supposedly am. There's no chance that I'm not the _universus_ , is there? Just, you know, in case?"

"I'm afraid not," Merlin said, with a small, rueful smile. "It is your destiny."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but that was a really horrible idea."

"What makes you think I had anything to do with it?" The stars in his eyes gleamed at her, more anciently than ever. "I'm not so powerful as that. I cannot craft and shape the world to suit myself – indeed, it is the ability that we must stop Gold from acquiring at all costs. I merely saw what was there, and recorded it. You are stronger than you know, Emma Swan. If nothing else, trust me on that."

"But if I'm the _universus,_ the only power I ended up with was the ability to say no to awful people who will do whatever it takes, hurting whoever they have to, to get me to change my mind. That's the hell of a shitty bargain."

"Indeed," Killian said darkly. "Unless Gandalf here has another scintillating answer for that?"

"I tend to go for Dumbledore, myself," Merlin said, unruffled. "As for that, Emma, there's more to it, but it's complicated. In the meantime, we _can_ give you some protection if you do what Gold has been doing: feed on me. It will transfer some of my powers to you, though it'll be up to you to decide how to use them. I can't get out of the cage, but you can come in."

Emma hesitated, trying not to picture a scenario in which he too had been mesmered by Gold and was luring her into a trap to keep them nicely locked up for safekeeping, but since Liam was still himself (though as a wolf, it was hard to be entirely certain) Gold must be unconscious, and this might be the only chance they would get. Bracing herself, she walked up to the cage, rocked on her heels as if to jump off the high board, and then stepped forward.

A queer rippling, shuddering sensation engulfed her, some great pressure as if her bones were being liquidated and then reshaped, until she thought she was stuck and shoved forward as hard as she could – then stumbled out as Merlin reached a hand to steady her. She had to admit he felt real enough, solid, once she got over the sheer cognitive dissonance of standing inside a cage in the basement of a suburban New York mansion with the most powerful sorcerer to ever live and the reason she, or Killian, or Regina, or Gold, or any of them existed as vampires in the first place, the author of the Book of the Dead and the ex-lover of the woman who had used it to such terrible and lasting effect. "If you don't mind me asking, just how old are you?"

He chuckled. "Old enough. Now come. We don't have much time."

Emma supposed it was true, was the irony for all of them as immortals that they no longer had enough of it, and stepped forward hesitantly as he pulled down the collar of his robe to bare his throat. She could see plenty of raw-looking marks on it, as Gold clearly hadn't been particularly fastidious about healing once he had finished, but chose a relatively intact stretch, bared her fangs, and bit.

Merlin jerked slightly, but held still, as Emma tried to control herself from what felt almost literally like chomping into a live electrical wire. Thoughts and memories and places and spaces and times that did not belong to her rushed past her eyes, a glimpse of unfathomable centuries, of a terrible battle, of years upon years upon years. Woods and moons and seas and skies and stone, a dazzling beauty and an unimaginable devastation – the eyes of the woman he loved, jet-black and monstrous – falling, falling _falling –_

The sensation was so strong that Emma gasped, flailing for safe purchase, as the world barely tipped back into alignment and she felt something smooth and rich and strong, sweet as honey and strong as wine, flowing into her veins. _God,_ it was so good, it was better than even Old One blood, and she could feel her fingers and then her hands and then her arms coming to life as if someone had hit all the switches on the control board at once. It went up over her head and shuddered down her legs, flowing out of her as if through the roots and branches of a great tree, green leaves budding in spring and blossoming in summer and turning yellow in fall and withering in winter all at once, until she barely knew how to stand it. Gasping, reeling, gulping, she finally summoned up enough will to break it, and pulled back, shuddering, almost seeing double. "Oh my God," she said weakly. "Okay then."

Merlin gave her another wry smile. "Quite an experience for a first-timer. Are you all right?"

"I – I think so, just – give me a second." Still feeling either as if she was going to be very sick, or leap from here to the Empire State Building in a single bound (possibly both), Emma leaned in and carefully licked closed all the leftover wounds on his neck. "This isn't going to be enough to allow me to kill Gold, is it?"

"Unfortunately, no. I don't know what all he's done to protect himself, but this alone won't be the answer. Be careful, Emma. Power goes to your head."

"I'll take my chances." For the first time she wasn't completely defenseless, had something that might enable her to actually budge the massive boulder set against them, might be able to protect the people she cared about, and she wasn't going to relinquish it easily – even if she could well see that going overboard in a hurry would be a mistake. She turned around and made it out of the cage with much less effort this time, and to judge from Killian, Regina, and Henry's faces, they had been quite thoroughly impressed and somewhat alarmed by the whole thing. God, she felt good. Felt Killian's nearness and (more importantly) wholeness; could sense him in that way she had last night before she leaned in to kiss him, was hungry for it, for more. It occurred to her that this could enable her to stay awake during the day, which was an incredible boon, and she had to bite her tongue on asking if Killian and Regina could also feed on Merlin and thus derive the same benefits. The poor man wasn't an hors d'oeuvre platter at a party, and the power might do strange things to them.

"So," Henry said, blinking. "If Gold wakes up, he'll be able to control me and the wolf again, so I think you should chain us up for your own safety. That way you don't have to worry about a potential repeat of the staking incident. Or – "

Liam shifted his weight and growled, ears laid flat back, clearly not at all keen on being made into a prisoner yet again. Emma couldn't blame him, but she could also see the sense in Henry's suggestion of pre-emptively neutralizing themselves just in case. Even so, she grimaced at trying to explain it. "Look," she said. "It would just be temporary, to make sure you couldn't do anything else he wanted you to. I know it sucks, I'm sorry, but it would only be until we think of something better."

He stared at her with baleful golden eyes, teeth still bared, as Killian put a hand on his fur. Liam was big enough as a wolf that he stood almost as high at the shoulder as a Shetland pony, and she for one didn't want to deal with it, even with her enhanced new powers, if he ran amok again. So she and Regina scouted around, discovered two sets of silver chains (Gold was clearly no stranger to keeping people locked up in the basement) and allocated the first set for him, the other for Henry. Emma had been about to suggest they put them on Liam, since he was obviously the greater danger, but the awful look on Killian's face stopped her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just don't want anyone to get hurt."

"I'll stay with him," Killian said. "No silver chains."

"You're still recovering from that stake wound, do you think you'd be able to control him if – "

_"No silver chains!"_

Emma flinched as if he had slapped her in the face. Seeing this was a subject on which he would not be budged in an infinitesimal degree, she decided not to waste time by arguing, and she and Regina went upstairs, untied Gold from the curtains, and dragged him into the basement instead, locking him as securely into the chains as they could. He was still out, but the dagger wounds had almost all healed, when normally that would have put an immortal out of commission for weeks, if not months. Likewise, the chains were clearly an absurdly short-term solution, and she tried to force back a low-grade stab of panic. At least it bought them a little time.

That done, they went back upstairs and onto the mansion's upper floors, where they contrived a more comfortable situation for Henry in one of the large bedrooms; he joked weakly that to anyone else, it would just look as if he was into some light BDSM. Emma hesitated, not wanting to leave him, but Regina cleared her throat and said, sounding uncharacteristically tentative, "I'll keep him company. Until sunrise, at least. You go deal with Killian."

Emma paused again, then nodded, not quite trusting herself to words. She squeezed Henry's shoulder quickly, then hurried back downstairs – whereupon she was briefly alarmed to find neither of the Jones brothers in evidence, until she caught a whiff of scent by the door. Following it out into the dark backyard, she found them in the grass, Liam lying with his nose on his paws and Killian curled up beside him, like a boy and his dog out stargazing and dreaming of some big adventure. It made Emma's heart hurt to see them, especially since this was clearly the place Liam had chosen, considering it was where he belonged, and Killian had followed. She could feel both of them go tense as she drew nearer, and after a moment, Killian said in a cool, flat voice, "Did you want something, Swan?"

"I – " She winced again; the rawness and anger was barely concealed beneath the surface, about to bubble over despite that effort at control. "You can come inside. It's all right."

"I'd rather stay here." He shifted his position, resting his head on Liam's furry flank. "You go and start working out how we're going to kill Gold."

"Killian – "

 _"Go."_ He didn't look at her. "You have a job to do."

Emma, unwilling to beg and sensing it wouldn't do much good at this point anyway, took a few deliberate steps away, then turned and walked with as much dignity as she could back into the house, stung and alone. The ballroom was still a mess from their earlier battle, the sheet stained with a large amount of Killian's blood, and she found herself briefly holding back tears. No matter what shiny new powers she might have acquired, she felt painfully helpless.

She took the sheet off and sat down on the couch, hoping for some convenient, dazzling flash of insight. This always seemed so easy for heroes in stories. They saw the path forward and they took it, and everything ultimately worked out for them in the end. But no matter if she was the Harry Potter to Merlin's Dumbledore, or the Luke Skywalker to Gold's Emperor Palpatine (that seemed far too hopeful a comparison, like she actually had a shot at defeating the asshole) none of the stories were worth a fuck-all of good to her right now. She just wanted to go home to her apartment in Boston, crawl under the covers of her bed, and not get out for the next five years.

She rubbed her eyes, tired and heartsick, trying to get herself to focus. To make being this _universus_ remotely a smart idea, and figure out what they did now, just as Killian had said. But at that moment, surprisingly and unsettlingly, there was a knock on the front door.

Emma tensed, quite sure that whoever it was, it couldn't be good news. Maybe it was just a lost pizza boy, and she could send him on his way (though possibly confiscating his pie; Henry would be hungry later and she doubted there was any other human food in the house). But no matter what, it seemed to be incumbent upon her to deal with it, and she picked up the silver dagger she had used to give Gold a number of chest piercings, hid it behind her back, and advanced to the door, pulling it open a crack. "Yes?"

"Good evening, Miss Swan." Arthur Pendragon stood on the doorstep in his usual immaculate suit and tie, like a Jehovah's Witness armed with tract literature and ready to save her soul from demons. As if he, or anyone, had a shot at _that_. "May I come in?"

" _You?"_ She should have expected that he would have caught wind of Regina's decision and followed her down from Boston, but this was still a nasty shock. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Arthur smiled, which in no way reached his eyes. "Oh, I think we both know why I'm here."

Emma took a moment to frantically calculate whether this meant merely that he was here to reproach Regina for involving herself when he had expressly warned her not to, or if he knew that Merlin was here, had been found at last, or if it was just to kidnap her, the _universus,_ and try out his next big plan to get her to work for him. With no answer being forthcoming, as it could be any or all of them, she tried a winning smile, hoping to stall him. "Actually, no, I'm not sure that's true. You see, it could be possibly just about – "

"Now, Emma," a new voice said. A woman's. A familiar one, as she caught a faint whiff of delicate rose perfume. "Don't be difficult. We've come a long way. Waited a long time – a _very_ long time. And so, I think, you'll be polite, do what you very much want to, and invite us in."


	15. Chapter 15

Oddly, Emma's first reaction was one of mild bemusement, which did not seem at all appropriate for the situation. The vampire potentate, entirely sufficient bad news on his own accord, was standing on the doorstep with the Queen of the Damned in tow, both doubtless on the hunt for the imprisoned sorcerer in the basement, while Killian and his brother were still outside in the yard, exposed to whatever minions they might have brought along. There had to be a number of more urgent responses, even if not quite screaming and running. But instead, all she felt was a faint buzz, a brief confusion, and then a cool, piercing clarity as she realized what had just happened, and stared Nimue down. "No," she said. "I'm not letting you in."

Nimue blinked. Apparently she had (understandably) not expected Emma to be able to resist a mesmer of that magnitude, and while there was certainly a crack about performance issues to be made, it would have to wait. "I _said,_ you want to invite us in, and – "

"And I said, no, I don't." Emma folded her arms. "Did I stutter?"

"Emma, darling," a third voice said, sending a cold shiver down her spine. "Don't be a pill, otherwise Mummy will have to ground you and take away your toys, and nobody wants _that,_ now do they? Let us in."

Emma looked back at them, Arthur in his suit and Nimue in the shabby hipster-chic she must have used to masquerade as a graduate student around Harvard, Zelena in her usual belted black ensemble with slouch hat, large emerald pendant, and heels, a stylishly evil trio straight out of a cover shoot for _Modern Villain_ magazine. "So it is all three of you in this together?" she said coolly. "Which of you was planning to betray the other two first? And besides, you're breaking the rules. If you _force_ me to do this, it won't work anyway."

"Ah," Nimue said, regarding her with a faint smile. "We're too late. Someone's filled her in."

"Merlin?" Arthur demanded. "It was him, wasn't it? Spouting off his riddles and lies and sorcerous nonsense? Whatever he's told you, it's a half-truth wrapped in an enigma wrapped in some foolish, impossible instruction. He'll use you for his own purposes, then throw you away like a filthy rag. Open your eyes to him while you still can. Before you lose everything."

"From what I've heard," Emma said, "it wasn't Merlin who destroyed your kingdom in the first place. It was Nimue. And now you're allying with her? How well did you expect _that_ to go?"

Arthur looked at her with slitted eyes. "With Merlin's help, I ruled a small, finite, dirty little patch of the Dark Ages that collapsed in the first gust of real power which blew on it. Nimue made me immortal. Nimue can help me build Camelot the way it should have been all along, spanning the entire world and standing as a monument to my greatness. I will be a firm but just king, master of a beautiful realm, with everything and everyone in their place and fulfilling my legend at last. Of course I'm grateful to Nimue for sweeping away Merlin's lies and inadequacies and the muck of a feeble, broken kingdom! _She_ understands my destiny!"

Emma looked at him for a long moment. She was realizing in some horror that it must have been Nimue's blood that Arthur had served them at the hotel back in Boston, trying to tempt and seduce them into joining his path, and that effect it had had on both her and Killian, wanting to hunt and kill and destroy. "That's very interesting," she said. "But you see, this isn't fifth-century Britain anymore. The world has tried this whole 'one man remakes society to be perfect' thing before. Many, many times. It always ends up burning it to the ground."

"Of course it does." Arthur's face was alight with zealotry. "Petty, flawed mortals trying to make it in their petty, flawed image. You and I, all of us – we're beyond that. I _will_ achieve who I was meant to be, what Merlin was holding me back from! And neither you nor anyone else is going to stand in my way this time. You really do want to let me in of your own volition, Miss Swan. It will make this so much neater."

"You know," Emma said. "Someone else told me I didn't want to make this 'messy' recently as well. I didn't care for his idea of it. I don't think I'll like yours much better."

Zelena rolled her eyes. "Darling, _tiny_ tip. Just as I told you before. Nobody cares. Remember? Not about your silly objections, not about anything except what they can get. And while Artie here may be a few inches short of a longsword, he'll make you into a princess if you go along with us. Wouldn't _that_ be lovely? Your life has been so grim and awful, hasn't it? You really deserve to be _pampered._ Well, _I_ deserve to be pampered at any rate, and once you stop being a stupid little girl, you'll see it likewise. We'll have Mummy and Me dates. It'll just be _groovy."_

Emma looked at her, long and levelly, for another fraught moment. Much as she hated it, these were the times when Zelena was closest to breaking through her armor. Not with promises of spa days and champagne flutes to sip the blood of innocents from or whatever other horrible things she had in mind, but the fact that no matter how psychopathically she went about it, Zelena clearly wanted to be her mother and had since the day she turned her. Wanted them to love each other, for Emma to accept her place as her blood daughter, for them to be a sick little family, enjoying the spoils of ultimate supernatural power and fancy shoe shopping alike. And that was more than she could say for her real parents, whoever they had been, who abandoned her without a backward glance and never once came looking for her. Sometimes there was a voice shrieking at her that she was in fact being a stupid little girl, expending so much time and effort on pushing Zelena away and trying to break the dam bond, that even an insane vampire must be better than no parents at all and she was willfully destroying any chance she had at building a family of any kind. Despite everything, she wavered.

Zelena clearly scented it, and sidled forward, pressing her advantage. "That's right, darling. He's here, isn't he? Gold? I can fix that little problem. We'll make him into our slave, won't that be fun? And I'll even let you keep that stray puppy you seem to have taken a shine to – you two look so _adorable_ together. You should have a boy toy, you know. It's very liberating. Come on. You know you want this. Let Mummy make it _all_ better."

Emma hesitated, caught in that childish compulsion to believe – that a kiss would heal a scraped knee, that a broom would chase away the monsters under the bed, that Santa Claus would come down the chimney and leave presents, that summer would last forever, that she could have adventures with dragons and princesses and fairies and imaginary friends, that the world was a safe and kind place and she was loved and wanted. She wanted to, more than anything. Especially when she had never had the leisure to do so before, not once. But if she did now, in this, it would be the ultimate and irredeemable mistake. Even after everything she had been through, that still felt like the cruelest irony of all.

"No," she said. "I'm sorry." And slammed the door.

Even as they were pounding on it, ordering her to reconsider, Emma whirled around and blazed across the house and out into the yard, hauling on Killian's arm. "You – both of you – get inside, now. Arthur and Zelena are here, they brought Nimue – or maybe the other way around, I think she's the ultimate puppetmaster. But they're just around front, you're not safe out here. Come on! Now!"

No matter his current opinions on her tactical decisions or anything else, this was a suitably terrible announcement as to capture his attention, and he flashed to his feet, Liam bounding after him, as they galloped inside to the comparative shelter of the darkened ballroom. Once they had shut and locked the veranda doors and drawn the curtains, Emma felt slightly safer, even though it was yet another of those facile illusions – that if she couldn't see the monsters, they couldn't see her. That they couldn't get to her here. Maybe it was true, she didn't know. After all, until they found a way to break the invitation protocol on this house, they were S.O.L., at least as far as gaining entrance went. And while Zelena and Nimue might have managed it more or less easily on her apartment, she had a feeling that Gold's protections were far more formidable. It was perverse that she was, for the first time, almost grateful for it. But in whatever slender window of opportunity this bought them, she had to do what she could.

"Hey," she said hesitantly. "Now that I have these powers from – from feeding on Merlin, perhaps I can figure out how to remove the mesmer on your brother?"

Killian glanced at Liam, who did not appear overly enthused by this suggestion. After all, Emma _had_ stabbed him in the shoulder with a silver dagger in Butler Library the other night, even if it was in self-defense. And since she didn't know how to control her new abilities, or even exactly what they were, perhaps it was understandable that Liam was leery to hand himself over to the control of yet another unknown commodity, another vampire, no matter how much he wanted to be rid of his slavery to Gold. What if she ended up doing something even worse?

Looking back at Killian, Emma saw all the same questions and misgivings reflected in his eyes. But then, just as deliberately, she could see something change in them, saw him commit himself and make the careful and conscious decision to trust her, even against his own anger and his instinct, as deep-grained as hers, to shut himself off from the world and hide behind his walls. She could feel it as strongly as the striking of a great bell, as he deliberated for a final moment and then said, "Go with her, Liam. She'll help you."

Emma opened her mouth, about to say something – what, she had no idea – but Killian was already moving away. "I'll tell Regina and Henry what's going on," he said. "See if they've some sort of plan for chasing them off, or if we're under siege until sunrise. Though for Old Ones as strong as Arthur and Nimue, that's not liable to be much of a problem, unfortunately."

With that, as Emma was still looking after him, he trotted out of the ballroom and vanished into the gloom of the grand staircase beyond. She shook herself, as this of all tasks would require careful attention, and turned to Liam, watching her with those lucent golden eyes. "I'll need you in human form for this," she said. "Can you shift back, please?"

He shrugged, if a pony-sized wolf could be said to do any such thing, and changed. She could tell it was much harder for him than the other way around, especially if Gold had kept him as an animal for almost three centuries, and had to fight an overwhelming urge to march straight downstairs and sic Liam on his tormentor exactly as Gold had once done to him. Any extreme of violence seemed justified when it came to Robert Fitzmalcolm and how much damage he had wreaked on all of them, but Emma knew it was a slippery slope, and one which would be extremely easy to get started down. If she wanted any leg to stand on when it came to this _universus_ thing, as obscure and unhelpful as it still seemed to her, she couldn't start off by replicating Gold's most heinous act, no matter how deserved. Had to try to help, not hurt. There was enough of that kind of thing going around already.

In a moment more, the change had completed, and Liam straightened slowly to his full height: a good half a foot more than her, broad and burly through the shoulders and torso, scarred and heavily muscled, brown curls tumbling in his eyes. As she had noticed before, he seemed unused to standing on two feet, and had to take a step to steady himself. In tacit acknowledgement of this weakness, she led him to the couch and sat them down, feeling a bit like the Beast's psychiatrist and wondering if she had the leisure of taking her time. Gold would be waking up soon, and there was still the terrible trio prowling around outside. Should she just try to rip the mesmer out like a noxious weed? But after so long rooted so deeply in Liam's head, who knew what else would come out with it if she did. This, to say the least, was going to be complicated.

"So," she said. "I don't know if you caught my name. I'm Emma Swan, I'm Killian's. . . I'm Killian's friend. I'm sorry about stabbing you, I didn't have a choice. What do you want me to call you?"

He was clearly surprised that she would ask, fumbling once more for his rusty, disused voice. "Just. . . just Liam. Nothing – nothing else seems to ap. . . apply."

"Before – before all this, when you were human, what would you have been called?"

A spasm of pain passed over his face at the mention of a time that must feel too distant and too dark to have ever been real. "Cap – captain, usually. Never – quite made it – to commodore." A corner of his mouth twitched, a wry, self-deprecating expression that, while it hurt her heart to see, gave her hope that there was still spirit somewhere in this man, a humanity and a resilience that even the worst of Gold's depravities could not quite destroy. _Just like Killian._ Both of them were so much stronger than they knew, and as it had when she watched Liam overcome three centuries of brainwashing, poisoning, and violence to lick Killian's wounds, to put him first and heal him, Emma clung onto that belief that there was still, somewhere, a small spark of light which no evil could extinguish. Something that might make all the difference in the fight they were now faced with. "Must have been – Cutler Beckett. Sodding. . . arsehole."

"Captain?" Emma repeated, impressed. "Navy?"

"Aye." Liam smiled faintly. "Loyal servants – of His Majesty – George the Second. Captain of the HMS _Imperator._ Kil – Killian was my first lieutenant. Together – our entire lives. Warned him against – get – getting involved with that drone. Milah. What led us. . . led us to this."

"Well then," Emma said. "I'll call you Captain. You earned that rank, and it'll remind you that you're in command of yourself, you're not a slave. When were you born?"

"The – the year Queen Mary died." Liam frowned briefly, reckoning. "16. . . 1694. Then Killian was born – the year King William died. 1702. Used to joke. . . that for a Jones brother to live. . . a monarch had to snuff it."

Emma couldn't help but wonder if that might still be true, given Arthur's status as once and future king, Nimue's as dark queen mother of the vampire race, and Gold's play for ultimate power no matter what it was called. Banishing the chill this conjured, she decided that this was as much preliminary as they could afford. "Okay," she said. "I'm going to try a few things. I'll do my best to make it as painless as possible, but we have to get the mesmer out, or at least weaken it. Let me know how you're doing, all right?"

Liam's gaze remained on her with unblinking, hawklike intensity, fighting his own instincts to refuse. He dipped his head once, in a terse approximation of a nod, and held out his hands.

Emma took them carefully, linking her smaller fingers through his large, sturdy ones. Then she worked up as much mental momentum as she could, and dove into his head.

With Merlin, it had happened as a side effect of feeding on him, in a rapid-fire, stream-of-consciousness assault that she had no way of controlling or directing, and it was barely more coherent with Liam; she had to fight harder to get in without the direct blood-to-fang contact. It was like wandering through a maze of half-broken doors, some of which opened more easily than others and some of which stuck fast, until she could tell by the tension in Liam's grip that she was hurting him when she pushed, and had to look for an alternate route. Images flittered past, the same as when she had unsettlingly experienced Merlin's memories as if they had happened to her, and she had to restrain her curiosity, her desire to go deeper and learn more. She saw a dark-haired, blue-eyed boy looking up at her with utter adoration and trust, felt sea spray in her face and the clang of a crossed sword run up her arm, heard a court seated in a grand old hall pronounce her _Captain_ Liam Jones as grey light fell on the floor, saw the young boy, now a young man, kneeling to receive his commission as lieutenant, felt indescribable pride and love swell in her chest – the scattered bits of memories that Liam held onto from his human life, flashing by like the turns of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. There were others, fragmented and elusive, too fast to catch hold of, but all of them were drawn inexorably down into the black abyss, as she gasped from the pain of the werewolf attack and saw Killian's horrified, pleading face, saw him struggling in vain to loose himself from the silver shackle, and Gold laughing, laughing, laughing. Then it turned into nothing coherent at all, merely the rage of the monster, beatings and hunger and blood, jumbled place and time, nothing but endurance like a standing stone weathering hundreds of years against the storm. Until she went deeper still, feeling Liam's grip almost crush hers, whispering apologies but sensing she was almost there, until she saw the dark tree growing at the root of his mind, spreading its poisonous leaves. Could sense Gold's presence there, overshadowing everything else, waiting, waiting.

Emma circled it carefully, trying to size up how best to attack it. Like any other massive old tree, it would take far more than one ax-blow to chop down, and she still had to figure out how to do so without completely destroying the rest of his mind. Grown strong and well nurtured with wolfsbane, it was old and evil enough to make her flinch away from touching it, but she had to. And at the base of it, it was deformed, pushed awry and weakened, in exactly the shape in which Killian had been curled up with Liam in the grass. In those brief minutes alone, the strength of their bond was enough to damage Gold's centuries-old stranglehold on him.

Liam himself was now almost breaking her fingers, and Emma realized he was still much too weak and vulnerable for her to stay this deep in his head any longer. With a gasp as if surfacing from a deep dive, she jerked back and into herself again, dizzy and disoriented, blinking hard until the world reoriented. "I found it," she panted. "It's a seriously nasty piece of work, I can't possibly just pull it out. Killian – Killian helped weaken it, he'll have to give me a hand with the actual break. Are you all right?"

He was still doubled over, bracing his elbows on his knees, looking as if he was trying very hard not to vomit, but managed to lift his head and give her a weak smile. "Aye, lass, I'll – I'll keep. You didn't rip up anything irreplaceable, at least."

"That's good." Emma glanced shiftily at the front hall, but couldn't hear anything from beyond the door. It beggared belief that Arthur, Nimue, and Zelena would just concede defeat and go home, so either they were taking a brief rest to come up with a new plan, or they had decided to try the back-door approach. Sometimes non-main entrances weren't as heavily guarded by the invitation protocol, but it seemed extremely unlikely that someone as careful and meticulous as Gold would accidentally leave a side door unlocked, figuratively or literally. They'd have to go get Regina, Killian, and Henry, make a plan of some sort, focus on the mission, afford no more distractions or diversions, nothing but –

"So," Liam said. "Are you and my brother. . . well, are you and my brother?"

"Wh – what?" Emma gaped at him. "Is this really the time for that conversation?"

Liam shrugged again. "The last woman he was in love with ended up costing us our lives," he pointed out, lightly enough but with a certain warning edge. His speech was getting somewhat more fluent, with that educated but faintly archaic English accent and the underlying steely timbre of a man accustomed to having his orders followed, not questioned. Emma should have been happy that this character trait was reasserting itself after centuries of slavery, and she was, but still. "This is as much professional interest as personal."

Emma's cheeks stung. "I'm not one of Gold's drones that he'll kill you for getting involved with, if that's what you mean. Kill you again, that is. I think he basically just wants to kill everyone at this point, it doesn't make much of a difference who or why."

Liam cocked one eyebrow, reminding her uncannily of Killian's own habit. "I did see how you were looking at him," he remarked, with a certain bossy-older-sibling overprotectiveness. "And more to the point, how he was looking at you. Be careful with my little brother's heart, Miss Swan. It can't take much more breaking."

Emma continued to gape at him, feeling as if she should deny this somehow, but couldn't quite come up with it. "I – Liam – Captain Jones, I don't intend – "

"We never do, do we?" Liam looked at her seriously, the light blue eyes of his human body no less unsettling than the golden gaze of the wolf. "We – most of us, at least – swear we mean the best. And yet sometimes, it ends up mattering all of a tinker's dam."

Feeling distinctly rebuked, yet as well that she probably couldn't blame him for cynicism and mistrust at this stage of the game, Emma was just attempting to formulate a response when a dry voice said, "Getting along already, are you? Try not to scare each other off, then."

They both glanced up with a start to see Killian standing in the doorway, Regina behind him. He didn't appear to have heard the topic of their conversation, thankfully, as he hastened in to regard his brother concernedly. "You all right, Li? Make any progress on – that whole mess?"

"Hard to tell," Liam said. "She found it, but it won't be easy to break. And we still do have larger concerns."

"Indeed we do." Regina's nostrils flared. "Like the fact that my wretched sister is outside with two of the oldest Old Ones there are, one the ruler of our world and the other who was indeed the progenitor of our entire existence, and all of them will kill us the instant they can. That's a bit more pressing than one bamboozled werewolf, so do you think we could _possibly_ get around to dealing with that now?"

Killian glared at her, but despite Regina's characteristically blunt method of putting it, nobody could dispute her conclusions. They were all just glancing at each other, waiting for someone to come up with their brilliant, ass-saving plan, when Emma frowned. "Do you smell smoke?"

Everyone sniffed at once, which would have been funnier in a less dire situation, and then broke out into equally simultaneous frowns. They then looked up to see an eerie red-gold glow starting to envelop the roof, and realized the simple, horrifying truth. Logically concluding that they could not force their way in, and that attempting to do so would be actively counterproductive, Arthur, Nimue, and Zelena had flipped the problem on its head. If they could not come in, they would just oblige everyone inside to come out, and to achieve it by the straightforward expedient of setting the mansion on fire.

For a long moment, they just stared, as the realization hit them at once. Emma felt her mind lock up. They couldn't leave Merlin in his cage in the cellar to be burned to death – she was not about to take her chances that he was immune to it, as vampires certainly weren't, and even if he did survive, they were completely fucked if he fell into the terrible trio's hands. While there was always the tiny, hopeful chance that Gold was vulnerable to fire, that seemed like one of the first things he would have protected himself against, and leaving him behind would probably just result in him being set free to wreak spectacular havoc. Henry was still chained to the bed upstairs, and if they went outside, if any one of them were captured, it would provide excellent leverage for the trio to snag Emma. In which case, see above: they were completely fucked.

All of this flashed through Emma's head in far less time than it took to be consciously spelled out. And with it, the realization that they only had one chance at survival. She had to stop the fire, no matter what, and stop it now.

She raised her hands. Could feel heat beating on her face, the roof starting to go incandescent – clearly it was not natural fire, was being helped along by Zelena's witchcraft, and it twisted and writhed and snapped like a dragon as she tried to grab hold of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Regina running upstairs, presumably to unchain Henry in case they had to make an emergency exit after all, and thought with sordid humor that the only possible way for the situation to get worse was for Gold to wake up at this very instant. Even if the mesmer had been damaged, it was nowhere near enough to permanently disable his control of Liam, and she couldn't – wasn't going to let it happen again, see him dragged down into the –

 _Now would be a really great time to appear with an instruction manual, Merlin!_ Emma thought she had managed to stop the flames from spreading, but she couldn't put them out, and her arms were starting to tremble violently with the effort of the unfamiliar power coursing through them. She couldn't take her attention from the task long enough to check if everyone else was safe. The strain was almost unbearable. She wasn't going to be able to hold it – she wasn't going to –

Just then, someone wrapped their arms around her from behind, grabbed hold of her wrists to brace them, and she realized that Killian was practically propping her upright, making sure she didn't fall. With that heightened awareness she had developed of him, that strange kinetic chemistry, the connection thrummed through her as raw and powerfully as when she had first bit into Merlin. She could feel his body nearly the same as her own, for a brief and disconcerting moment she _was_ him, nose buried in her own hair, tendons standing out on her strong forearms as she held herself around the waist, could practically taste him in the back of her throat, the scent of him on her lips, a deep sweet heat that made it extremely difficult to concentrate on what she was actually supposed to be doing when she wanted to start an entirely different kind of fire. But she felt entirely unchained from the limits of flesh, reaching to snatch at the flames and drag them down, engulf them, as the pleasurable ache of power coruscated through her. She moaned, half a whimper, grinding back on Killian as their hips wedged solidly together. His breathing hitched, lips pressed against her neck, as her eyelashes fluttered and her head fell back on his shoulder, mouth open in short, gasping gulps as she finally mastered the fire and stamped it out like embers in a dwindling hearth. Then, since she could no sooner do otherwise than reverse the tides or winds or water, she whirled around, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

Killian grunted in surprise, but recovered adroitly, mouth opening to take hers and pulling her lower lip between his teeth. She could tell he was still angry with her by the heat and insistence of the kiss, pushing and challenging her just that bit more than comfort, and she fought just as fiercely back, knocking him onto his heels and breaking something valuable as they ended up in a blurred moment more slammed against the wall, as she got her legs around his waist. Her fingers twisted into his thick dark hair, yanking his head down possessively as he made another of those deep low sounds she so enjoyed, pressing the tip of his fang into the corner of her mouth just lightly enough to draw blood, shared like some rare elixir. She was just thinking that she was definitely on the verge of empirical confirmation of the "vampire sex is fucking awesome/awesome fucking" hypothesis if this kept up any longer, when they were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat like a cannon blast. "Yes, we're all very grateful you didn't let the place burn down, by which you'll certainly be aware where the bedrooms are?"

Killian pulled away with an aggravated sound, causing Emma to utter a small whine of deprivation. "Bugger off, Regina."

She arched an utterly scathing black eyebrow back at him. "As you might have noticed if you weren't surgically attached at the face, our work isn't done. They could just light another fire if we don't get them out of here, so grab that fluffy brother of yours and we can run a sortie while they're distracted. You two can at least stun Arthur and Nimue, and I'll handle Zelena."

"And do you really think that's going to work? Not just play directly into their – "

"Do you have a better idea, loverboy?"

As the two of them were continuing to murder each other with their eyes, a second throat was cleared with equal force, and Liam – who, Emma supposed, technically qualified as Regina's older brother as well since she and Killian were blood siblings – glared at them even more heatedly. "Bloody hell, you're both wrong. The three of us can't overpower the three of them, and likewise we can't sit in here and wait for them to try again. We'll have to negotiate."

Regina snorted. "Negotiate? With _them?_ That would be exactly as useful as banging our heads against the wall until we pass out, then chopping off both our feet. How about we leave the strategic planning to someone who _hasn't_ spent the last few hundred years as Gold's lovable dog sidekick?"

At that, Liam just stared at her, with such a flat, furious gaze barely on the edge of control, that even Regina had the grace to blush and drop her eyes. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "That was a bit much. But we need action, not dithering. And they're not going to suddenly agree to do what we want, because what incentive do they possibly have for – "

"They want the _universus,"_ Emma interrupted, a sudden dangerous idea occurring to her. "They want me. If they thought they might lose it, what would they do then?"

"What? No, Swan. That's stupid. We couldn't risk exposing you like that. If they had some kind of backup plan – "

"But you're willing to risk the three of us instead?" Killian snapped, clearly seething at Regina for her previous remark. "Love, what are you thinking?"

"One of you pretend to hold me hostage," Emma said. "Act like you'll kill me if they don't clear out. It should buy us a little time. Not much, but at least enough to come up with a – "

"And do you think they'll go for that?" Regina interrupted. "From either me or Killian, it would look like exactly what it was, they'll see straight through it. Unless you – "

Liam cleared his throat again. "Or," he said, mildly but with that same steel laced through every word, "as you put it, 'Gold's lovable dog sidekick' might be able to convince them, yes?"

Regina and Killian both stared at him. It was hard to tell which of them opposed the idea more, and for what reason. But they didn't have time, Emma didn't want to try her gambler's luck twice putting out another fire, and she didn't see a better option. Making that same split-second decision to trust him as she'd seen Killian do earlier, putting Liam's fate literally in her hands, she stepped toward him. "Let's do this. Come on."

Liam hesitated, but snapped to it. They headed up the stairs, Regina and Killian trailing behind, and out to the doors that led to the second-floor balcony, gazing regally down on the front yard. He held out a hand, and Emma gave him her silver dagger, unable to repress a brief pang of fear that he might actually stab her both for added realism and to get her back for the Butler Library episode; he hadn't struck her as innately vengeful as his younger brother, but two hundred and eighty-something years of supernatural slavery could and demonstrably did mess with a person's head. He closed his fist around it, gave her a searching look, and waited until she reciprocated with a quick, tense nod. Then he grabbed her by the hair, put the knife to her throat, and kicked through the door onto the balcony. "You fools had better leave," he growled. "Now. Otherwise, I'll send her to you in a dozen small pieces."

Arthur, Nimue, and Zelena, evidently having a discussion upon the failure of their seemingly foolproof "smoke the motherfuckers out" strategy, whirled around to stare up at them, as Emma did her best to look terrified and unwilling. She was pleased to note that all three of them had clearly been caught off guard, and Arthur made a quick, convulsive movement as Liam twisted the knife. "Don't, you idiot! You have no idea what you're about to – "

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Liam said, pulling Emma's head back so far that her tiptoes strained to keep contact with the ground and her neck began to ache. "Here's your precious _universus,_ Pendragon. Do you want her alive or not?"

Arthur shot a furious look at Nimue, imploring her to do something, as she pursed her lips and regarded the scene musingly. "It must be Gold's little slave," she said. "The wolf."

"Then he wouldn't dare kill her," Arthur insisted. "It's a trick of some kind, it has to be. Gold knows her value as much as we do, he would never allow some upjumped minion to – "

"Do you want to take that risk?" Liam locked his arm around Emma's neck, hard enough to make her claw at him trying to loosen it; a vampire couldn't be killed by strangulation, but it still felt just as unpleasant. "What if my master has another way to get what he wants, and doesn't need her anymore? Especially not to chance her falling into the hands of the likes of _you?"_

Arthur's confident expression slipped a notch. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Liam bared his teeth. "Lord Robert has studied the mysteries of your kind for centuries. Just because you've read false copies of the _Liber incarcerati_ and think you know everything. . . you don't. You know nothing. And I advise you not to try any of the rituals, if you're interested in surviving long enough to find out just how badly you're wrong."

Arthur, Nimue, and Zelena exchanged glances. It was clear that they inordinately resented being thwarted by some _werewolf_ when they were so close to achieving their goal, as Emma pried off the iron bar of Liam's arm long enough to get a proper breath. The nearness of the silver was bedeviling her, burning and freezing her, which doubtless did add that touch of authenticity to her attempts to escape, and at that, she had another dangerous idea. Hoping against hope that Liam would be able to think on his feet and realize what she was doing, she shouted, "Zelena! M – Mother!"

Zelena's head jerked around, eyes lighting up. She looked genuinely delighted to hear that word finally pass Emma's lips, and Emma herself pushed aside the faint prick of guilt, twisting her fingers ruthlessly into the advantage. "Look," she said, gasping. "The real _Liber incarcerati –_ the one you want – it's not here. It's – it's in London. The one Nimue stole from Harvard – it's a fake. It's a fake!"

"Shut up!" Liam shook her hard enough to rattle her fangs. "Shut up, or I'll – "

"London!" Emma repeated, as loudly as she could. "The one in the British Library! I swear!"

Arthur, for one, had heard enough. He clearly thought it was the most logical that the genuine article should have ended up in London, his place of residence and Gold's centuries-long power base, and he shot a put-out look at Nimue as if to inform her that she really should have done a better job of checking her sources before obliging him to up stakes (rather literally) and transport his dignified person all the way across the Atlantic to such a horrible place as _America._ He vanished in a blur, and after a moment she followed him, not without one last lingering look at Emma. Zelena called, "I'll be seeing you _very_ soon, darling," and followed suit.

As soon as she was certain that they were gone, Emma let out a ragged gasp, doing her best to twist her head away from the silver knife before she passed out. She could feel a faint tremble in Liam's hand as well as he put it down, half-lifted her, and hauled them back inside, whereupon they discovered Regina and Killian holding back a horrified Henry, who had arrived too late to be apprised of the plan and thus been forced to view it helplessly from afar. "Are you _crazy?_ What is – what the hell just – that's the wolf, Gold's slave, he – "

"He's not," Emma said wearily. "Well, he is, but not just that. He's Killian's. . . he's Killian's brother. Real brother, from a long time ago. Henry, Liam. Liam, Henry."

"How do you do, sir." Liam, ever the gentleman, inclined his head and held out his hand, which Henry, still looking gobsmacked, shook gingerly. "I assure you that your assessment of my status is, unfortunately, mostly correct. Your friend here has done her best to help me, but it's a thorny problem to solve."

"She – she's actually my mom." Henry was still clearly waiting on an explanation as to why Liam had dragged her out to the balcony with a knife at her throat, and Emma put a hand on his arm. "What's going on, did they – are they going to – "

"They're gone," Emma said. "For now. I sent them on a wild goose chase to London, I told them that the real _Liber_ was there. The vampire community has to notice if Arthur is poking around, if he never comes out of his house, and maybe they'll also discover just how many problems the Old Ones registry seems to be having recently."

"London?" Regina frowned. "That doesn't seem like the greatest idea. Arthur knows everything about how to maneuver there, he'll be on his home turf, and if – "

"You had a better plan?" Emma rubbed at the stinging spot on her collarbone where the silver knife had broken the skin; even that was enough to make her feel nauseous. "I know it's not going to work forever, but it might buy us a little time. Killian, you'd better call Will and warn him that I just sent a heaping helping of trouble his way. He'll need to be careful."

Killian sighed. "Will? Careful? Where danger and reckless adventure are involved? He'll be racing out to pick them up at the airport. I'll do my best, though."

"Good. And – Henry? Let me try something, all right?"

Henry, still looking as if he had arrived at the end of a lecture he was supposed to be teaching and had no idea what was going on at all, obligingly faced her, and Emma, with a brief warning that this was going to feel weird, carefully entered his mind. She knew it was a bit like a nosy parent snooping in their adult child's bedroom and reading their diary, and did her best to block out all the distractions and search for that same dark root she'd found in Liam's. Gold had centuries of mesmer and manipulation to cement his hold on him, but with Henry, it had only been once and yesterday, it couldn't be that hard to get it out. That way, while Gold could certainly mesmer him once more, he would need face-to-face contact to do it, rather than just switching back on the established control. Indeed, the growth in Henry's mind was just a small black sprout, rather than a massive tree, and with an effort, Emma managed to yank it out. Henry yelped, Killian steadied him, and she jerked back into herself, breathing hard. "There. Don't look Gold in the eyes, and he can't possess you again."

"Ouch," Henry said, rubbing his head. "That stung."

"Sorry." Emma shot a glance at the clock. Dawn was only an hour or so away, at which point she would learn the full extent of her new powers, and they could only safely count on about three or four days to keep the terrible trio distracted in London. That was a terribly slender window of time to put together a plan for saving the world, even assuming that nothing else went wrong, and considering how things had proceeded to date, nobody was taking that bet. "Regina, you need to call in as much help from the Boston coven as you can – Zelena already knows everything, we don't have to worry about it getting out, I suppose there's that at least. I'll call Ruby and the Dorchester pack, they might be willing to help me, and they can't have any love for Gold using one of their own kind like this and framing them for his dirty work. Henry, do anything, any research that might help us, and Regina, give him permission to get into any supernatural archives you can think of. And Killian – Killian? Killian?"

He wasn't listening to her. He was on his knees, clutching Liam's forearms, wrestling with him, as Liam's eyes turned golden and in a few terrible instants, Emma saw every bit of the polite, shrewd, reserved, stubborn Navy captain vanish in the flood, the man disappear and the wolf, the slave surge back. Flung herself onto her knees, grabbing hold of Liam, trying to force him out of the change, adding her strength to Killian's but feeling it insufficient against the scale of the power set against them, as Liam howled and writhed and snapped, as she tried to fight the invisible thrall sinking its teeth and claws into his mind again, but was thrown away so hard that she felt it physically. As Regina yelled for the silver chains, as she had to wonder if she had in fact doomed them all by letting Killian refuse to put them on him, and even more still as she knew beyond all doubt what was happening, what this meant.

Gold was waking up.


	16. Chapter 16

"Oh, son of a bitch," Henry said. "Can't someone run downstairs and stab him again?"

"That's not going to work!" Regina grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back from the three-way supernatural imbroglio on the floor, which doubtless she meant to do urgently but since Henry was not a vampire, nearly dislocated his shoulder – which was definitely not something on the vanishingly short list of "Things That Will Make This Situation Not _Completely_ Terrible." He yelped, and she shot him a remorseful look, but remained unswayed. "That much silver should have kept him out for _weeks._ If he's already awake now, all you'll do is make him angry."

"And, à la the other monster with rage issues, we really won't like him when he is?" Henry was not the vampire-slaying expert among the present company, although he had watched all seven seasons of _Buffy,_ all five of _Angel,_ and had a large stack of the comic books under his bed at home. Not to mention, had almost done some genuine slaying just a few hours ago, though certainly not by his own volition. "If we chop off his head and burn each of his limbs at the four crossroads and lock the remains in a trunk and tie weights to it and throw it into the ocean, that would work, right? I mean, it would be gruesome, but if there's no other way – "

"Don't you think I tried that?" Killian Jones looked up, eyes dark with pain as he fought to keep an arm locked around his brother's ruff, trying to anchor Liam back into his human self or at least prevent him from losing his mind completely. "Cutting off his head, or other sundry bits of him? You can't. It wounds him, but it doesn't remove anything. If it was that easy, I'd have had my revenge the first time I tried to kill him!"

"Shit." Henry was still inclined to say that they have a go, since everyone also had a valid reason to want to bury a hatchet between Gold's eyeballs, but it was true that this particular vampire seemed to have armored himself impenetrably against every possible way you were supposed to be able to take one of them down. "So bashing him with a really large crucifix probably won't be much use either?"

"Do you see a crucifix lying around?" Regina backed him away from the ongoing melee. "Besides, all you could hope to do with one is give him a goose egg. Crucifixes worked better in earlier centuries when people were more religious, and that carried over to their immortal lives. They have some residual protection now, yes, but for someone like Gold, it wouldn't cause him so much as a bad sneeze."

Henry filed this bit of supernatural lore away with interest, as apparently the placebo effect played a significant part in determining which deterrents were the most useful, and were relative to each vampire's place and time. He was just about to ask if you could, say, frighten a 90's vampire more efficiently with a VHS player or a dial-up modem, when there were several loud scuffling noises, a long claw mark scratched into the floor from a scrabbling back paw, and Liam, who had been most of the way transformed into his wolf shape, reverted back into a human, looking dazed. Killian had his brother's face in his hands, staring into his eyes, repeating over and over, "Look at me, Li. Look at me. Look at me. Don't listen to him. Look at me. I'm here. Look at me. Look at me."

Liam uttered a confused growl, but momentarily abandoned his efforts to go totally berserk, breathing heavily and wincing. He tried to twist away from Killian's grasp, but the younger Jones refused to let go, hauling him around as Emma sat on his legs, effectively imprisoning him for the time being. "You never learn, do you?" he remarked, in what was clearly Gold's voice. "Still making this messy, Miss Swan. Do you _want_ me to tear you all to pieces?"

"Get the bloody hell out of my brother's head, beast." Killian slapped Liam on the cheek, trying to get his eyes to focus. "If you have something to say, do it through your own fucking mouth."

"I would," Liam/Gold said. "If you'd be so kind as to visit me in the cellar, where you were so _un_ kind as to confine me in the first place. In the meantime, I find this makes for a far more effective demonstration. You couldn't save him in the first place, and you can't stop me from putting him to the only use he's good for. You'll both get to watch each other die this time, but before you do, you get to see me win. All those centuries of futile effort, all for nothing, when you finally understand how little you have – "

"Hey, dickhead," Henry interrupted. "Notice anything funny about your quest for world domination? Like how many people you aren't actually enslaving right now?"

Liam's head spun around unsettlingly to look at him, and Henry instinctively averted his eyes, not wanting to find out if Gold could re-mesmer him secondhand through someone else. At any rate, the distraction was enough for Regina, who had rushed down the hall to Henry's previous bedchamber of imprisonment, to return with the silver chains, lock the cuffs around Liam's wrists, and tie him briskly down, ignoring Killian's hiss of objection. "Sorry, but until we can be sure he won't disembowel us the instant we turn our backs, I'm not relying on the touchy-feely approach. And you're welcome to keep him company if you want, but we still have bigger fish to fry. Swan, Killian, come with me. We should pay our guest a quick visit after all."

Henry opened his mouth, about to ask why he was excluded, until he remembered the very good reason. Considering the last time had resulted in a most unpleasant staking, he didn't blame them for not wanting to let him close to Gold again, but while he knew there were things that as a human he could not pull the same weight on as a vampire, his pride still stung at being treated like the liability. "What if I just wear a blindfold or something? Mesmer is dependent on eye contact, you said that. Or I could – "

"No," Emma said, getting unsteadily to her feet. "How about you stay here? If we're talking to Gold, it'll keep him out of Liam's head. Maybe you can, I don't know. Help."

Henry was about to ask how exactly a human English professor with no special abilities besides speed-reading piles of essays written in scintillating undergraduate prose would be able to free a centuries-old werewolf from the thrall of imprisonment to the most evil and powerful vampire ever, but then he shut his mouth with a click. If this was to be his fate, at least he could face up to it and try to make of it what he could, and he too thought it was a bit cruel, if understandable, to leave Liam chained up here by himself. Now that he had been assured (or at least hoped) that he meant no real harm to Emma by that scene on the balcony, he was willing to offer whatever assistance he could, and after a moment he said, "All right."

Regina nodded tersely, beckoned to Emma and Killian, and they – after a final glance by the latter at Liam – departed. Henry sat across from the chained werewolf, waiting until he could tell by the abrupt jerk and shift in Liam's posture that Gold had been distracted elsewhere, leaving them a precious brief interlude to speak as themselves. After failing to think of some clever bon mot to kick off the conversation, he said simply, "Hey."

Liam's shadowed face turned toward him, with an expression of such exhaustion and grief that Henry felt it almost tangibly in the air. "He took me over again, didn't he?"

"Yeah." Henry hesitated, as it felt like trying to have a conversation about an embarrassing personal problem with someone you had just met in unfortunate circumstances and really didn't know very well, with the added fun fact that you yourself, under the control of their present slave master, had almost killed their brother less than twelve hours ago. "I only had him in my head for a day, and that was bad enough. To stand it as long as you have and not be completely turned into a vegetable. . . that must take some serious strength of character. I admire that."

Liam looked startled, as it must be the first time anyone had said such a thing to him in at least a lifetime, and Henry felt that faint, poignant twist in his heart that he always did when reflecting upon his dealings with the immortal world. Throughout his childhood, to cope, he had told himself that he wasn't angry, that this was out of everyone's control, that the fact that he went from being Henry Cassidy to Henry Nolan, to a completely different person in a completely different life, was just something he had to get over and which he could probably write a successful memoir about one day (the supernatural world owned a few major publishing houses, which did in fact print a great deal of vampire romance novels, and had recently taken a particular interest in human-experience nonfiction). But during the course of this adventure, after being thrust back together with Emma for more time than he had spent with her in years, he was realizing painfully that he _was_ angry. Not necessarily at her, although a small part of him couldn't help it, but at all the lost time, at all the irreplaceable damage, at people like Gold and Nimue and Arthur and Zelena who weren't necessarily worse than plenty of ordinary despots who'd aspired to ultimate power, but actually had the means to do it, and not care about who got in their way. That desire to hurt, to dominate, to rule, wasn't something immortals had invented, not by a long shot. Perhaps, despite all their supernatural power and ability, their greatest weakness – or greatest strength – was how, at heart, deeply and terribly human they still were.

"Sorry," he said, noticing Liam glancing at him worriedly. "I just – lost in my thoughts for a second. So you – you're Killian's brother, huh? I can see the resemblance. And I'm sorry about the, you know. Stabby part."

"Aye." Liam cracked a slight smile. "Believe me, I know you didn't have a choice. Besides, I suppose it's a sort of twisted blessing. If you hadn't staked him on Gold's coercion, he wouldn't have been brought here, and then the two of us might never have known that the other was still alive. And while I don't much think I'll survive this, I will save him no matter the cost."

Henry took a moment to absorb that. He had gained a brother upon his placement with the Nolans – James was almost the exact same age as him, and after two weeks in which they fought like the proverbial cats and dogs, they became inseparable buddies essentially overnight. They never discussed the fact that Henry was adopted, because they didn't need to; they were brothers and they stuck together, whether it was in lying to the somewhat overprotective Mary Margaret about which violent video games they had been playing or stealing David's truck for an ill-fated weekend camping trip. When Henry found out the truth about Emma and why she'd left him, Jimmy was the first person he told, and after five minutes of insisting that Henry was pulling his leg, Jimmy paused, said, "Shit, you're serious?" and after a further moment of consideration, asked if Emma could find him a hot vampire girlfriend. That was the last they had to mention it. Their parents knew as well, but for obvious reasons, remained a bit leery about inviting a bloodsucking fiend for regular family visits. They insisted that Emma was welcome to stop by and see Henry whenever she wanted, but their relief when she almost never took them up on it was palpable. It was Henry who had to take the onus to go find her, that first year at Columbia when he couldn't stand it anymore, and slowly start to rebuild their relationship from the ashes. Perhaps it was fitting that now they were back here, that things were coming oddly full circle. "Just so you know," he said, "you matter too. I'm guessing that right now you probably think you don't, not a bit, and the only remaining value your life has left is whatever it can do to get Killian out of this. But don't lose sight of the rest of it."

Liam's surprise was clearly even greater at this than at his previous extraordinary statement. After a moment he said, not as a question, "You have a brother too, don't you."

"Yeah. His name is Jimmy, he's a cop in Boston. He's a total asshole." Henry paused. "I'd take a bullet for him."

Again that painful, ephemeral flicker of a smile. "Well," Liam said. "Hopefully you won't have to. You have much more of a future than I do, and I think Killian likes you."

"I like him too," Henry said. "He's one of the few people I can actually talk to about what the hell is going on, and we've worked well together thus far. Also, he and my mom really need to get their act straightened out and quit dancing around each other. I feel like I have to hold their hands and tell them the world won't end if they stop being afraid and actually, you know, explore it a bit. I understand why they are, though."

"Ah," Liam said, not sounding entirely approving. "So there _is_ a courtship going on?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far. Just that there's. . . potential. But my mom's last serious boyfriend was an evil were-monkey responsible for handing her over to Zelena to be turned into a vampire, and then with my dad before that, it was. . . well, it was rough. So there's baggage."

"I can imagine," Liam agreed diplomatically, though with a slight wry edge. "She's a brave lass, Emma. Feisty, and strong. She'd be a good match for Killian, I can see that clear enough, and perhaps that's what frightens me about it. I don't think he could manage losing another love like that. It's the truest part of who he is, that soul-deep devotion. To me, and then to his Milah, no matter the cost. He'd be the same with your mum, or more."

Henry regarded him thoughtfully, hoping against hope that Gold did not choose this delicate juncture to crash the party. Then he said, "The other night, my mom was saying she wanted to get me away from this. Send me somewhere safer. I didn't want to duck out like a coward, but what if I take you? I know the mesmer loses its effectiveness over distance, so even if Gold has it dialed to super strength right now, if we could get you far enough away, we could keep you from going under long enough to find a way to actually fix it."

Liam looked at him warily, clearly not even able to picture a life where he was not subject to the constant threat of turning into a raving monster, completely bound to Gold's will and whims. Could not imagine freedom, could not want it, or he would crush himself with the poison of false hope. "He'd find us," he said. "He'd hunt both of us down, and do something even worse to you for daring to defy him. I can't be responsible for that, lad."

"Screw him," Henry said fiercely. "Seriously. Screw. Him. It's about time he doesn't get what he wants, and _more_ than about time that he stopped being able to play with us like chess pieces. I'm willing to take the risk. My car's back at the motel we were staying at, we'd just need a ride there, and then, well, it's pretty much wherever. Have you, I don't know, always wanted to take a vacation in Maine or something?"

Liam opened and shut his mouth, still looking flattened. "Henry, I couldn't ask – "

"No," Henry said. "You couldn't. Because you have no idea how anymore, because it's been completely beaten out of you. That's why I have to offer."

"Are you – no. Something would go wrong. He'd still be able to control me, or I'd hurt you, or someone. You can't be responsible for wrangling a broken-down old wreck of a werewolf single-handedly. It's foolish. To save _me?_ What's the point?"

"Look." Henry leaned forward. "I said you mattered, Liam. I'm willing to put my money where my mouth is. If you have to have another reason, there are plenty of them to keep me away from Gold and out of harm's way so Emma and Killian can focus on fighting him without worrying about us. At least, not as much. I'll call Harvard, I'll tell them it's a family emergency – and, well, it is. I've taken enough time off already, they can't be surprised it'll be a little longer. Neither of us can do as much as we want to, but we can do this. Come on. It's a start."

Liam remained utterly incapable of formulating a coherent reply, still shaking his head slowly and grimacing as the burn of the silver chafed his cuffed wrists. But he didn't seem as affected by them as another immortal might be, doubtless because he had spent so long in them over the centuries as to develop an unfortunate tolerance. That in turn had the effect of firming Henry's resolve to get him out of them, to defy Gold in whatever little way was in his power. There was still the problem, however, of doing it without immediately tipping him off as to where they had gone, as that obviously would be counterproductive. As well, there was the inescapable fact that if Liam _did_ go rogue, Henry had to have some kind of defense mechanism in place. Chains or wolfsbane or something of the sort, anything to protect himself and anyone nearby from the consequences. He was well aware that rehabilitating Liam wasn't going to be a matter of playing a few hippie-dippie meditation tapes and telling him to think happy thoughts, but a brutal, painful, slow process that would proceed as fitfully as trying to help any other traumatized veteran and prisoner of war with crippling PTSD, who had been so thoroughly dehumanized that he was starting to look uncomfortable about having spent this long out of his wolf shape. And considering how shitty the standard of care was for regular returning human soldiers, Henry had serious doubts about conveniently stumbling on a supernatural VA hospital (the greatest impossibility would be if it actually functioned and was funded and staffed) to check Liam into. He _was_ an English professor, not a psychiatrist and therapist used to dealing daily with the most broken and lost people in existence. He had to keep his own limits in mind.

Still, logistics aside, he was stubbornly determined that he was going to do this or die trying. He waited until Regina, Emma, and Killian emerged from the basement, looking communally unsatisfied, which he took to mean that the interview with Gold had been as unfruitful as expected. But as they said they had once more managed to temporarily subdue him, which was going to last even less than the first time, Henry took the opportunity to fill them in.

The three vampires exchanged guarded looks. Clearly they weren't opposed to it, but the same potential pitfall of Henry having to deal with a wolfed-out Liam alone, unable to contain the collateral damage, was one to cause them sleepless nights (or rather, days). He promised that he'd do as much research as was possible remotely, but that seemed to be less of a concern. Finally, however, Regina said, "It's the best chance we have. It can't hurt to cut down on the cannon fodder, that's for sure. And Maine doesn't have a designated vampire queen, as far as I know, so you wouldn't step on any official toes. Plenty of werewolves and lumberjacks, you should be right at home."

"All right," Henry said. "But how the hell do I get him there without Gold finding out?"

"Wolfsbane." It was Liam himself who answered. "You'll have to give me as much as I can take, it'll keep me knocked out long enough so I, and therefore he, have no idea where we're going or when we've arrived. I know where he stores it. Take a few more, in case you need to put me down later."

Killian winced. "Li, don't say things like that."

"It's the truth," Liam said, unflinching. "We don't know what will happen or how far it will take to get me out of Gold's sphere of control, and I'd rather not have this on my conscience. Hurry."

After another hesitation, and instructions from Liam on where to find Gold's poison cabinet, Emma turned and hurried off to get it, leaving an uncomfortable silence. Killian clearly hated the idea of letting his brother go again so soon after finding him, with both of them in such a delicate state, and with the knowledge that if he did, he might never see him again. After all, Gold had already killed both of them once, and the task of killing _him_ had just become even more insurmountable. Henry pushed away a brief flash of despair, a pessimistic thought that this made no difference at all and was just a matter of choosing where they wanted to die. As soon as he just gave in, as soon as they all did, that was the point where this truly became impossible.

Emma returned shortly with a box of vials, which she handed to Henry. The light outside was getting grey; it would soon be dawn, which theoretically all three vampires would be able to withstand, at least for a little while. In fact at this point Regina was likely to be the one to be sent to sleep first, and even she could probably eke it out until mid-morning or so without a booster shot. But someone had to be left behind to guard Gold anyway, and she was the obvious candidate. So with Liam's wrists still cuffed, a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt found for him to replace his torn and scuffed-up ones, he, Henry, Emma, and Killian went out into the chill predawn, hopped into Regina's Mercedes, and drove from Scarsdale back to the Ramada in Yonkers. They got out and stood in the parking lot, none of them eager for the parting, trying to downplay their nerves, until Henry said, "Well, I'll send a postcard."

Emma laughed, bit her lip on a sob, and stepped forward, hugging him hard. "Take care of yourself," she whispered, voice wavering. "Both of you."

"It'll be fine, Mom." Henry discovered that his own voice was not quite as steady as he would have liked. "We'll kick back and eat lobster and maple sugar candy, build a cabin in the woods or something else manly. Head to Canada if Maine isn't far enough, Montreal is probably beautiful at this time of year. If about a million degrees below zero."

Emma didn't answer, hugging him harder, until he could feel her shaking faintly and she made herself pull back, pushing a windblown strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. "I'm so proud of you, Henry," she said. "You're everything a mother would hope her son to be. Esp – especially when she didn't have that much to do with raising him."

"Mom." Henry looked at her gently. "You have to try to forgive yourself for that, all right? When all of this is over, I'll take you to Lexington, and you can get to actually know David and Mary Margaret. We'll figure out how to be a family. Because we are, all of us. No matter how strange and unusual and twisted." He glanced at Killian and Liam, who were standing close together, silently gazing at each other. "That goes for you guys too. Just so you know."

"When all of this is over," Killian repeated, trying to muster a smile, clearly clinging to the promise of these words, some distant future where they survived and the war was done, where they woke up and they were not afraid, and they lived. "I'll hold you to that, lad."

"I'm counting on it." Henry glanced at the sky. "Come on, we have to get moving."

Liam hesitated a final moment, then nodded. He stepped forward and hugged Killian fiercely, as best he could with his chained wrists, and the Jones brothers remained in each other's arms for a long moment, holding on, holding on. Then Liam leaned in, kissed Killian lightly on the forehead, and let him go, giving him a gentle push toward Emma. "Go on," he said. "I don't want you to have to see the rest of this."

Killian glanced back at him with raw, imploring eyes, barely containing his emotions, but he managed to nod. Stepped to Emma's side as Henry gave him a small nod, then waited to be sure that they had gotten into the Mercedes and pulled out, taillights glowing in the grey, before he unlocked his own car, swung in as Liam ducked into the passenger seat, and, taking a deep breath to brace himself for an unpleasant task, started uncorking vials of wolfsbane. "Sláinte?" he said, handing them over. "I'm sorry. I'll drive as fast as I can."

Liam grimaced horribly, but didn't back down from necessity, downing one and then the next like shots, as visible spasms gripped his entire body and he forced himself not to gag. Henry certainly did not think he'd have been so forthright about drinking actual poison, even if it would only put him into a stupor and keep him insensible enough so that Gold couldn't snoop through him. When Liam had finished, slumping back in the seat, Henry girded his metaphorical loins, turned the engine on, set the satellite radio to some suitable road-trip music, and pulled out, finding himself briefly wondering if his book manuscript, which he had FedExed off before leaving Boston, had made it across the pond to OUP yet. It was good to have something normal and mundane to worry about, something that wasn't world-altering and apocalyptic, something that made him hope he'd still have a career and a life to get back to when all this stupid supernatural shit stopped flying. He thought of Violet Percy, and how they had a not-a-date this Thursday that he would have to cancel, because he was taking a shell-shocked werewolf into the witness protection program. He didn't regret what he was doing, and he'd still make the same choice again. That didn't stop him from mourning what he had to leave behind.

Henry rubbed his knuckles across his eyes, adjusted the rearview mirror, and got onto the interstate, heading north. He had a feeling Liam wasn't going to be very talkative for the journey, so it would be up to him to derive his own entertainment. He could use with a shower and a proper night's sleep and about five cups of coffee, but all that would have to wait.

He took a final steadying breath, blinked hard, and accelerated. There had to be some quiet little town where they could lie low, or perhaps an accommodating local werewolf pack that could help with Liam – Regina had said this was their kind of territory, it must be far too rustic and provincial for vampires, who tended to prefer the city-slicker high life. They'd figure it out. They'd stay out of the way. As long as they had to. Until this was over.

Until this was over.

Henry pulled down the visor to block out the rising sun, and did not look back.

* * *

It was very quiet on the drive back to Scarsdale. The temptation to do the same as Liam and Henry, to run away somewhere to the wilderness and pretend they were safe, was almost overwhelming, and Emma had to keep her eyes straight forward on the road, hands locked with learner's-permit precision at ten and two on the wheel, in case she just yanked the Mercedes around and did it. But aside from the fact that Regina would certainly be pissed at her for stealing her car, she couldn't. Perversely, the only place that was safe from Arthur, Nimue, and Zelena – who would not be in the best of moods by far when they found out they had been deceived, though she hoped it was far too much to ask that they were caught and stopped in London – was in Gold's fortress with all its protections and reinforcements, and besides, Merlin was still there. As long as she hoped to have any power, as long as there was any chance of getting him out of that cage, they had to stay – at least for now. And she thought she might be having the beginning of an idea. Merlin had said he was powerless in there, and if even he couldn't just wiggle his nose and magic himself out of there, Gold was unlikely to be able to do the same. If they could switch them, get Merlin out and Gold in, Gold would lose all his invulnerability and all his strength and all his added protection, and theoretically should be able to be killed – staked or silvered or whatever – like any ordinary vampire. But that was difficult on a level she couldn't begin to imagine, sorcery far beyond anything anyone knew, and the fact remained that the only person who knew for sure how to do it was Nimue. She could get him out if she chose; of that Emma had no doubt. But if she did, it would only be to finish what she had started sixteen hundred years ago, remove Merlin and the threat of the _universus_ forever, and – not to put too fine a point on it – cover the world in darkness.

When they pulled up in front of the mansion, the sun now well up over the eastern horizon, Emma marveled at the fact that she didn't feel anything, not even a flicker, when normally she would be well out by now. Killian of course was able to stay awake on his own accord, but he had, to say the least, been through a rough night, and his face was pale and wan, heavy dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders crunched. He raised a hand, stared at it dully, then ran it through his hair, tousling it back. Even after she had switched the car off and set the parking brake, he didn't move, until she finally said softly, "Killian? Are you still angry with me?"

"I. . ." His eyes flicked at her, then away, as if he couldn't stand the shame of meeting her gaze. "Swan, I. . . I suppose it wouldn't ultimately have made much bloody difference, he'd just get on with killing your lad and Regina and anyone else he needed to twist your arm, but why – why didn't you just let me die? I asked you to do that, that you wouldn't agree to help him – probably my damned mistake to think it would make a difference, and I wouldn't have found Liam again if not. . . I don't even bloody know what I'm trying to say, I'm babbling like a fool, but I can't stand it if I was the reason Gold rose to ultimate power again, when it would have been so much easier to let me go. It's not as if I'm any use to anyone."

"What?" That almost made her laugh, as much as it hurt. "Killian, is that – is that actually what you think? I wasn't going to stand there and let you die like that. It just wasn't something I even considered. And we're in plenty of shit now, sure, but right now you're alive, Gold's a prisoner, we found Merlin, I have something resembling power, Henry and Liam are on their way to somewhere safe, Arthur, Nimue, and Zelena are chasing snipes to London, and we're still fighting. How, exactly, was any of this the wrong decision?"

That took him aback, as he had clearly not thought of any of it in this way, too tormented by the idea that he had somehow beguiled or broken her into disastrous weakness. "Swan, I – "

"Look," Emma said. "I know something about playing the what-if game. Believe me. But I was just doing it with Henry, and. . . you heard what he said. I can't just stop wishing overnight that what happened to me never happened, that I got to keep him, that my life didn't have a giant atom bomb dropped into the middle of it by Zelena and what she did to me. But I can't change it, and you can't change everything that's happened so far, with Gold and with everything else. And I don't regret it. I'd make the same choice again. I wasn't going to let you die. End of story."

Killian glanced at her almost shyly under his dark lashes, unsure how to answer that, too fragile and stunned. At last he lifted his hand, and Emma watched it float through the gauzy morning air toward her, watched it settle against her cheek, fingers curling around her ear. Her own eyelashes fluttered, her lips parting, as they slowly leaned across the gearshift, hesitant and careful, until their mouths met softly in the middle.

They remained there for a long moment, still wary, until all at once it changed and they surged forward, hands in each other's hair, pulling, turning, devouring, raw and relentless. She clutched at him, needing him like half of her heart, as his mouth moved to brand light kisses on her cheek, her jaw, the column of her neck, down to the hollow of her throat. Her fingers fisted in his glorious mop of hair, curling around the elegant line of his skull, as he crawled across the seat closer to her and her head thunked smartly against the window – which would have hurt if she was a human but as it was, she barely noticed. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing and kissing until their lips were wet and bruised, until their fangs drew tiny drops of blood, until despite the lack of body heat they had well and truly steamed up the windows of the Mercedes and the first several buttons on her blouse were undone, Killian exploring the valley between the creamy swells of her breasts. As much as she couldn't stand to stop, she gasped, "Regina's going to kill us if we make out in her car. And by make out, I mean. . . you know."

Killian looked up at her with his blue eyes gone almost black, but in hazy lustfulness, not the usual onset of blood rage that black eyes signaled. He wiped his mouth unsteadily with the back of his hand. "Were you suggesting somewhere else, love?"

"I don't know." Emma giggled nervously. One of her legs was thrown over the back of the driver's seat, the other awkwardly on the dashboard, and surely there had to be more comfortable places to continue their enjoyable activities. She struggled upright, fumbling to button her blouse, as they got out of the car looking like guilty teenagers and gazed at the imposing mansion, wreathed in shreds of morning mist. She had cause to know there were plenty of bedrooms in it, but there was another panicked voice in her head asking if she was sure, if she was really going to do this. As much as she wanted to rationalize that it wouldn't be different from her other one-night stands – she wasn't an _entirely_ sexless nun, after all – she was well aware that it would be completely different. Her first time with a vampire, her first time with someone she knew had already gotten through her walls, who she had more or less openly admitted she couldn't stand to lose. To do that in a mansion with Gold chained up in the basement, not to mention the possibility of Regina walking in and catching them – the smart thing to do was wait, or try to put it off indefinitely. They were fighting a war here. No time for literal fucking around.

They were fighting a war.

They might not have another chance.

And for once, just for _once,_ she didn't want to be the one sabotaging her own chances at happiness, at even trying. They might die anyway, and then it might not even matter, but if so, she didn't want to be the coward. To know she had stood here and watched it pass her by, the same as ever. Just for once. Just for now.

Emma hesitated a moment longer. Then she stepped forward, popped Regina's trunk, and removed the folded blankets from it. Without a word, she jerked her head at Killian, then started to walk, almost not daring to glance over her shoulder and see if he was following. Skirted around the expansive lawn, stepped into the trees beyond, and walked until she heard running water, emerging into something that looked almost like a fairy glade. Shafts of pale sunlight daggered through the tall, grey-barked trees, just beginning to show the hint of a spring bud. Thick green turf grew on the bank, and tangled bushes screened them from view on all sides. Indeed, the illusion of stepping into a different world was so strong that Emma had to take a moment to remind herself that they were in suburban New York no more than a thousand yards from the house. She could see fresh drops of dew on the branches, fresh and unspoiled. She almost didn't want to blink, for fear of disturbing it.

After a moment she turned, put down the blankets, and spread them on the grass. Killian stood like a statue a few feet away, watching her with unblinking intensity, until she finished, straightened up, and shook out her hair, rippling like white gold in the morning stillness. Then, facing him, she undid the buttons of her blouse one by one, shrugging it off her shoulders and feeling the fresh air nip at her skin; it was cold, but that was no object for vampires. Then she reached around, unclasped her bra, and slid it off her arms, never breaking eye contact.

At that, Killian's knees almost seemed to give out. He took a few clumsy steps, a man lost in a dream, Kubla Khan and absinthe pleasure palaces, _beware, beware._ He reached her in the next instant, that strange blur of movement for an immortal, but his hands were achingly slow as he reached up to cup her breasts, to stroke a thumb over the nipple that stiffened to a peak. _Close your eyes in holy dread._ Emma arched her back, filling his hands with them, her own fingers toying at the clasp of his belt, the fastenings of his shirt, as suddenly she could no longer stand to wait and almost tore it (well, the rest of it; it was in bad shape already) in her haste to get it off. Ran her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, the dark-furred solidness of his chest, pulling his head to hers for a drowning, gulping, starving kiss, their bare torsos entwining as he ran a hand down to the curve of her ass, pulling her solidly against him. They went to their knees together, sprawled out on the blankets, as she fumbled with the lacing of his infernally complicated trousers. Still, she managed them, shucking them down around his lean hips, as his deft, sure hands returned the favor. She kicked out of one leg, then the other, and the jeans landed in a crumpled heap twenty feet away as if launched out of a cannon. The more excited they became, the harder it was to hold back their strength.

Emma rolled around on top of him, only in her panties, gasping and mewling in the back of her throat as he rubbed hard between her legs, her knees sliding to either side of his hips. She reached down to palm him through the cloth of his briefs, then slid her hands under and pulled them off, stroking the cool, silky-smooth length of him and circling her thumb teasingly at the tip as he made an utterly inhuman noise, came up beneath her like a volcano, and flipped them over, landing her solidly on her back. With another elegant movement too fast for her to see, he stripped her of the intervening underwear, gently pushed her legs apart, and kissed low and hot on her stomach, moving down to poise on the brink, then lower.

Emma sucked in a gasp that she felt to the back of her spine as he licked at her with consummate skill, paying special attention to her clit until she was seeing barely metaphorical stars. _For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise._ She was wet as a spring rainstorm, arching her hips and desperate for friction, trying to rub against him, but he still wouldn't let her; of course he would be obstinately determined to give her pleasure first before he would even think of himself. She growled and clawed at him, but he would not be deterred, working carefully and thoroughly until she felt herself jerking and spasming, on the very verge of orgasm. Only then did he sit back on his heels, smirking at her, looking almost ethereal in the sun. How strange, how impossible, how marvelous that the two of them, creatures and monsters of the night, should come together for the first time in the full light of day.

Emma gulped a few useless breaths, feeling waves of heat shimmer down her, until she reached for him and took him by the hips as he walked on his knees toward her. Still he hesitated, eyes meeting hers in question as if expecting her to refuse at the moment of truth, but once more, she didn't look away. Reached down, and slowly, carefully guided him into her, stretching her and possessing her, inch by inch deeper, burning.

She groaned, rolling them together to even out the fit, head tipped back as he mused at her collarbone, and she felt the brief bright prick of a love bite. She swung forward, knocking him onto his back and coming down squarely athwart him, taking him deeper still, as he rode up into her with strong, sinuous thrusts. Wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him into her, lowered her head to his neck, and bit.

The sensation was nearly as strong as tasting Merlin for the first time, and far more carnal, delicious, impossible. Pleasure as violent as a tidal wave shook through her, as she moaned and clawed into him as he fucked her into hot bright madness, as she licked and sucked and tasted, neat and delicate as a cat in cream, their teeth clashing in the heat of their kiss, before she turned back to her work and he to his. His hand slid down her ass, boosting her up into him at a new angle, as he bent a knee and flipped them over, covering her body with his. She experienced him so intensely that she once more lost track of which body she was actually in, could feel them joined root and branch and in something more, that lure of shared blood, as he in turn bit into her just above the breastbone and suckled, until the pleasure of the feed combined with the pleasure of the deep hard rhythm of his strokes sent her completely wild. Even if any nosy mortal had been lurking in the bushes, they would have been hard-pressed to see the speed with which both Emma and Killian moved, rolling over the blankets and tearing them almost to shreds, briefly on their feet and up against a tree, then back in the grass again. Everything was stardust and sunlight and the molten core of eternity. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper.

She hissed, then gasped, then keened, mouth open, a shining drop of blood on her chin, pulling him into her over and over, realizing that with vampire stamina and the added strength of the feed, this orgasm, when it came, was going to be like nothing and no other she had ever experienced. She locked her legs together on the small of his back, pounding, his hands tangled in her hair as he dragged her to him for one more devouring kiss, grunted, and collapsed on her at full length as she lit up from head to heel like an exploding star. It tore at her down to the most primal level, until there was nothing, no atom or sinew, no tiny part of her that had not given itself to him, as he gave the same to her. No beginning and no end. Only them, entwined.

It took a very long time until Emma was remotely aware of the world again, Killian lying heavily atop her, his dark head curled in the hollow of her shoulder as they gasped. She had no bones or muscles that she was aware of, only a brilliant warm glow, him still inside her and their entire beings meshed on such an elemental, molecular level that it seemed impossible they could ever be truly separate again. She was flattened. She had been destroyed, unstrung, reforged, remade.

Finally he shifted, sliding out of her, and landed next to her, pulling her against him and draping an arm over her waist. He nuzzled at her neck, leaning in to lick his bite closed, as she twisted around to do the same for him. They were loathe to let go of each other, to end this moment in any way, but the sun was high over the trees, and the dream was over. It was time to go. To wake up.

"Now what, love?" Killian whispered hoarsely as they sat up, still facing each other, hands interlinked, noses touching. "Now what do we do?"

Emma smiled tremulously at him, unable to stop herself from stealing one more quick kiss. She tidied his utterly disreputable hair out of his eyes, and squared her shoulders.

"Now," she said. "Now we fight."


	17. Chapter 17

It was roughly four hours into _Henry and Liam's Excellent Adventure,_ which had thus far consisted of Henry driving and Liam doing nothing at all, when they stopped for gas in Worcester and he had to fight the overwhelming urge to just nip home to Boston, which was only an hour east on 90, and pack a few things, wash a few clothes, maybe take a nap. He was well aware that this was a terrible idea, but still. A little normality would have been nice among all the chaos, even if seeking it out was likely to get him killed or at least once again kidnapped on extremely sketchy pretenses. The more Henry thought about it, combined with the fact that Arthur _had_ turned up with Zelena and Nimue in New York, it seemed inarguable that his legendary literary hero, star of all those songs and stories he had worked on with such devoted joy while writing his senior thesis, was in fact a power-crazed, self-righteous prick with a manipulative streak a mile wide, and whose plans to rebuild his perfect, idealized kingdom had to be stopped before they destroyed the rest of the world. There was that saying about how you should never meet your idols, but Henry still felt stung, personally reproached that he couldn't write anything more about Arthuriana without adding a footnote ("Met the guy, he's an asshole") and, he had to admit, more than a little sad. That was the thing about finding out the stories were true. Once they'd sprung off the page in flesh and blood, in flaws and complexities, you couldn't consign them to the safety of ink and paper and abstraction anymore. Then you had to face the fact that to save reality, you had to give up your most beloved fiction. And as important as that was, as necessary, the love that human beings had for stories, for being taken away to other worlds, drawn into a ripping yarn, to root for the heroes and hate the villains, was a part of their most integral existence. Destroying that, and its cost, couldn't be underestimated.

Henry pulled into the pump, popped the gas cap, and swiped his debit card, hoping they could make it the rest of the way to Maine on one more tank of premium unleaded. His last paycheck, never bounteous in the best of times, had been three weeks ago, and thanks to the delightful rat race of assistant faculty, if he wasn't working, he wasn't making money. The chair of the English department had been more or less understanding when he'd phoned her at their (well, his) first rest stop, although he could hear the bewilderment in her voice – and a hint of suspicion. The eggheads at Harvard had been faced with a difficult choice in whether or not they were going to believe that a dangerous supernatural entity was responsible for the attacks on their students, and while most of them had either put off or ignored the dilemma altogether, they _had_ cottoned on that Henry had something to do with it beyond merely serving as point man and faculty contact, and surely they, professional smart people, had also copped to the fact of the victims being in his classes. As well, Emma had sent the terrible trio to London, thus removing Nimue, the actual culprit, from the vicinity. . . if the attacks stopped at the same time he vanished to deal with his ongoing "family emergency". . . you didn't need to be an Ivy Leaguer to put two and two together and come up with a highly unpleasant four. He kept reminding himself that there was a lot more at stake than his career, but still. It didn't mean it was something he wanted to lose.

Henry watched the numbers click up until they stopped with a thunk, he removed the nozzle and replaced the cap, and decided to run inside to grab some snacks. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and financial pinch or not, if he was brought down by five bucks for a stale sandwich and a bag of chips, he had probably been screwed anyway. Trying not to think what it might take to keep a werewolf fed (hint: raw meat, and lots of it) he pushed the door open with a jangle, selected his foodstuffs from the shelves, and took them to the counter to pay. But the cashier, a large tattooed fellow with a beard far more impressively bushy than Henry's own, didn't ring him up. Instead he regarded him for a long moment with a distinctly unfriendly aspect, then asked, "That a Tail in your car?"

Henry stared at him, completely lost, until he belatedly recalled that this was slang for werewolves, the same "Teeth" was slang for vampires, and at that, realized that he just might be on very thin ice. Denying it would be ludicrously stupid, so he went for the second least terrible option. "I – what? Look, man, I don't want any trouble, we're just passing through. No harm, no foul, let me pay and we'll be – "

"Just passing through when you've got an unconscious Tail in your passenger seat? Do you think we're blind, meat? What the hell are you doing with him?"

"I – " Repressing an urge to remark on what large teeth Grandmother had, Henry grasped the fact just then that the cashier was a werewolf – several of his buddies lounging around the beer cooler apparently were too, judging by the way he could see their ears pricking up and a yellow glow in their eyes. Oh, hell. Trying to explain that he had only dosed Liam with wolfsbane to the gills and was kidnapping him for his own safety would go over like, well, a vampire at a Monster Truck Rally (that being the kind of thing werewolves tended to enjoy). But since he naturally not had any dealings with the other half of the immortal world, was used to vampires and their fierce solitude, he had not reckoned with the even fiercer pack mentality of wolves, their determination to stick together and interrogate him on behalf of one of their own kind he was apparently up to no good with, even if Liam was someone they didn't know from a hole in the ground. "Hey. It looks messed up, I know, but I swear I'm trying to help him."

"Sure." The werewolf gave him _you-must-really-think-I'm-stupid_ fish-eye. "How about he comes in here himself and tells us that?"

 _Shit._ Waking Liam up, aside from close to impossible due to the amount of wolfsbane he had taken, would allow Gold the chance to get into his head and find out where they were, and not to mention, there were still the silver cuffs, which would be even harder to explain away as just a quirky fashion accessory on Liam's part. "I'm serious. Why would I be crazy enough to try to kidnap a wolf on my own? I'm human, you can see that. I don't – "

"You smell like Teeth." One of the muscle boys near the beer cooler straightened up and began to saunter in his direction. "Bad Teeth."

Considering Henry's own appraisal of Cruella de Vil and her status as the most unapologetically flamboyant malefactor in the history of either New York City or the supernatural world in general, he couldn't exactly argue with that, but that was yet another little incident that wasn't going to be explained away with "look, funny story." His heart was starting to pound. There were at least four of them, all his same height and twice his weight, and if they decided to teach the insolent meat a lesson, this was going to be worse than when the bullies used to wipe the gym floor with his face back in elementary school. Surreptitiously he reached into his pocket for his phone, as if calling 911 was going to be a fat lot of use with a pissed-off werewolf pack in the mood for vigilante justice on his ass, but decided it looked too much as if he was going for a gun and pulled it back out. As evenly as he could, he stared the cashier down, remembering all those old wilderness-adventure stories where you weren't supposed to blink when trying to intimidate a wolf and/or bear that wanted to eat you up and shit you out. "Can I buy my food now, please?"

"Like hell I'm selling to you." The cashier cracked his knuckles. "Until you give me a straight answer about who you are and what you're doing, you're not going to leave or – "

Henry was just about to point out, since werewolves were clearly renowned as constitutional experts and firm upholders of law and order, that he was pretty sure they couldn't legally do that, when the gas station door flew open so hard that its out-of-tune bells flew off and landed with a croak on the aged linoleum. Liam stalked (or more accurately, staggered) in exactly as terrifyingly as only a six-foot-two, heavily muscled, unstable-looking, hard-bitten man could do, eyes fully golden despite the fact that he was in his human form and the hint of a fang showing where his lips curled back. His wrists were still chained, completing the "dangerous escaped prisoner" look to a tee, as he came to a smart halt, glanced around and sniffed, then said in a low, hoarse growl, "Is there some sort of problem here, gentlemen?"

Henry opened and shut his mouth. There should have been no way that Liam was awake so soon after taking that much wolfsbane, but apparently he had forgotten the fact that since Gold had made himself systematically more invulnerable to the common deterrents of his kind, some of that would have inevitably rubbed off on Liam, who had been subject to Gold's control, strengths, and weaknesses for centuries. As well, since Gold had used it so much to control him, his tolerance must be pretty close to saturation level. As grateful as he was that this would probably stop him from getting disemboweled in the middle of a Conoco, it was extremely bad news in other ways, not least that he couldn't be sure if Liam was currently being controlled by Gold or not. Or what effect the wolfsbane had had on him. He darted to Liam's side, holding out a hand. "Hey, hey, hey. Easy. These guys were just wondering what's going on with you, but we're cool, all right? I was just grabbing some lunch, no big."

Liam ignored him, still staring evilly at the other wolves, who had lost some of their apparent spoilage for the fight after getting an eyeful of him. "I asked, _is there a problem?"_

The cashier, clearly recognizing the presence of an alpha, all but literally tucked his tail between his legs. "No, sir. I don't believe there is."

"Good. Then sell him the bloody victuals and we'll be on our way. Yes?"

"Yes, sir." The cashier punched in the sale, all but snatched Henry's money out of his hand, and stuffed the sandwich and chips over the counter at him. "Sir, we were just wondering – "

Liam pivoted to regard him with a withering stare unpleasantly reminiscent of his vampire master. "Was it any of your business, beta?"

"No, sir. No, it wasn't."

"Good. Delighted we're in accord."

With that, Liam jerked his head at Henry, who resisted the urge to say something witty he would probably regret on his way out the door, and the two of them crossed to the car. Henry was well aware that Liam had managed to get himself out with no effort at all, chained and poisoned or not chained and poisoned, and began to wonder if this was going to be a lot harder than even he had planned for. He tore the cellophane off his sandwich and took a bite; it was dry and tasteless, and he wished he'd sprung for a Coke, but he didn't want to go back in. So he buckled in and started the car, drove a short way down the road, and parked in the outer lot of a strip mall. "So," he said. "Hate to say this, but you have to take more wolfsbane."

Liam raised a deeply unenthusiastic eyebrow. "Aye? That much should have kept me out for days. I'm not entirely sure what more will do now."

"I think it's because of Gold, either because you have his same resistance to things that should do a number on you, or because he's used it on you so long that it's not much different from a few stiff drinks. We still have a ways to go, and if he finds out – "

Liam ran a hand through his disheveled brown curls, mussing them further, then scratched the heavy turf of stubble on his jaw, chains clinking. "Easy for you to ask, isn't it, lad?"

"Yes," Henry said apologetically. "I know. But you yourself agreed this was the only way to – "

"Aye," Liam repeated tonelessly. "So I did. Hand them over, then."

Henry hesitated, but was glad enough that he had agreed not to press it. He dug the box of wolfsbane vials out of the back seat and offered it to Liam, who stared at them with exactly as much enthusiasm as could be expected from asking someone to once more voluntarily poison and incapacitate themselves after the first go-round hadn't been as effective as needed. He took one out, uncapped it, brought it to his lips, grimaced deeply, and continued to stare at it. Then all at once he flung it away with shocking violence, enough that there was a tinkle of breaking glass against the rear window and a dark stain on the upholstery (which, considering that wolfsbane was also known as aconite, the deadliest of poisons, was a bit of a problem for any further humans who might be riding in said seat). "No," he said through his teeth. "No, I don't want to do it like this. What if that happens again and I'm not awake in time? It's bloody bad enough I have to be smuggled out like a haunch of pork because I can't be trusted – no. Christ, lad. I'm sorry. I can't do it. If Gold takes me over again and puts you in danger, just kill me. It's better for all of us that way."

Henry gawked at him, not least for Liam's assumption that he would be able to bring down a full-grown and extremely strong werewolf, slave of the world's most powerful vampire who had given him an endurance perk or two, with no more than his wit and charm. "What? No! I said I was going to save you, remember? I mean it. And no, it's _not_ better if you die. Do you really want to make me go back and tell that to Killian?"

Liam rolled his eyes nearly out of his head in exasperation, but the mention of his brother was enough to force him into glaring surrender. "Fine. Don't kill me, then. I still can't stand the fool's charade of this entire affair. Just leave me and go."

"No," Henry repeated. "There is no way on _earth_ you're getting me to ditch you to save my own skin and then hightailing it out of the country. We're in this together. That was the entire reason I wanted to take you. Now drink your damn wolfsbane and shut the hell up so I can get you somewhere safe."

If looks could kill, he would have been as dead as Gold wasn't, but after a seething moment, Liam glanced away. He removed another vial from the box, then tossed it back, wiped his mouth, and threw it out the window. One more, and while he might not have been completely as dosed as last time, at least the cumulative effect of the stuff already in his system was enough to do the trick. Muttering things that Henry thought it was better not to hear under his breath, he went back off into la-la land.

Henry drove for a while, unable to stop himself stealing periodic glances over at Liam, but if he was anything less than quite unconscious, he gave no sign. Henry also then and again had the unpleasant sensation that they were being followed, even though there was no particular reason he could put his finger on for thinking this aside from a constant urge to check over his shoulder or in the rear-view mirror, half-expecting to see Cruella breaking the sound barrier up behind him. Reminding himself that it was just a guilty conscience, or at least the natural reaction to what they were doing, he nonetheless got off the interstate and meandered for a while on the two-lane county highways, where any potential pursuer would be easier to identify. But if there _was_ someone on their butt, they were being careful. The further they got off the beaten track, the longer they could go without seeing another car.

At last, as it was getting dark, Henry realized they were going to have to stop for the night, and as he was not keen on accidentally checking into the Bates Motel, he might have to try to find his way back to civilization. But that, however potentially falsely, felt dangerous, exposing themselves to too many eyes and questions, and besides, if Liam _did_ have a reaction of some sort, it was best to have plenty of empty woods around for him to run in, rather than a populated metropolis of any appreciable size. So, jiggling his phone to get a signal, as it had been in and out for the last several hours, Henry put his trust in Google Maps to lead them to a lunatic-free lodging establishment somewhere in the reasonable vicinity. Also, some kind of food would be nice. Maybe a mom-and-pop grocery store, or anywhere large enough to have a butcher's counter where he could buy something for Liam. Though if worse came to worse, he doubted he'd go hungry. There had to be plenty of small animals in the woods, after all.

In twenty minutes or so, Henry turned a skidding corner on the gravel road and beheld the result of Google's deliberations: a dismal two-story pink-cement establishment called Jenny's Country Inn, with an attached barbecue restaurant that seemed only marginally likely not to give him food poisoning. Still, there was a light on in the office that looked welcoming, and going any further afield would add at least an hour until they could stop and rest. And Henry, to say the least, was completely exhausted, to the point where he had started catching himself dozing at the wheel and having to hastily correct their ominous drift toward a guardrail or patch of dark trees or anything else he would not enjoy hitting at sixty miles an hour. They had to stop.

He surveyed it, decided it would have to do and was probably cheap, then turned off the engine and cautiously poked Liam. When this elicited no response, he poked again, then jumped back as Liam jerked awake with a roar, eyes slitted and teeth bared, until he saw it was Henry. He slumped back in the seat, cursed, and groaned. "Where the blazes are we?"

"Can't tell you, remember?" Henry eyed the silver cuffs, knowing that he would have to chance removing them if he wanted to walk into the office and have any hope of convincing the nice unsuspecting receptionist that they actually weren't dangerous criminals on a jailbreak from Sing Sing or Attica. As well, there might be brochures or pamphlets or even just a daily newspaper lying around, something that Liam could use to figure out their location, and blindfolding him would definitely also have to wait until they had a room. Like that was going to last very long, really. He might as well strap a sheet of paper to his arm and call it a knight's shield.

Still, they weren't exactly spoiled for choice. They got out of the car, Henry carefully unlocked the cuffs and stored them in his briefcase, then took a deep breath, summoned up all the perky people-person demeanor he used when forced to deal with the elderly and grumpy dean of faculty, and marched them inside, crossing his fingers that they weren't about to stumble into another local nest of supernaturals. "Good evening, do you have a room?"

The receptionist, a plump middle-aged woman in a floral-print shirt who was almost certainly named Donna, blinked at them in some surprise. "Yes, sir, we have two available tonight. One with a king-size and one with two doubles."

"Doubles, please," Henry said hastily. He opened his wallet, fishing out the last of his cash; he'd rather not leave an electronic fingerprint here. "How much?"

The woman quoted him a figure, and he did his best not to grimace, while still thinking that a place such as this one should be cheaper. Then again, they probably had to make their money per customer, especially in a low season such as this when there were no county fairs or fall leaves or other activities to drive traffic, and he paid. As she was taking two plastic-tabbed room keys off the wall to hand to them, she paused and said, "Him, he's not – ?"

"He's fine," Henry interrupted, well aware that even without the cuffs, Liam was still an openly menacing figure. "He's, um, he's my uncle. We've had a long day. Do you have Internet here?"

"We have Ethernet cables available for purchase, do you want one?"

Gritting his teeth and reminding himself that free high speed wi-fi was not a universal human right, even if it should be, Henry grimly shelled out for a cable, took the keys before she could change her mind, and let them out, up the exterior stairway, and to their room on the second floor. As he was unlocking the door, which was stuck, he thought he saw some kind of car cruising slowly past on the road, gravel crunching under its tires, then stop at the end of the lane, turn around, and drive back. It didn't stop or otherwise draw undue attention to itself, but it was exactly what his frazzled nerves did not need. He shoved the door until it opened, revealing a room even less appealing than the Ramada in Yonkers but which at least would provide four walls, a roof, and something softer to sleep on than the backseat of his car. Letting out a martyred sigh, he flicked on the overhead lamp and closed the door with another jerk. "Well, it's not much, but I guess it'll do for now."

Liam stared around with a slightly nauseous expression on his face. "I don't think I can sleep here. It's so. . ."

"Dive? Yeah, I know, but it's better than – "

"No – here. This – this space, it's so small, and that – " Liam waved a hand at the bed, covered in a lovingly handmade item that had definitely won third prize in some regional quilt show. "There. I can't sleep there, it's – I'll go out to the woods. That would be better."

"Wait." Henry frowned, realizing the source of the problem. "How long has it been since you've slept in a bed? An actual bed?"

"I don't remember." Liam's eyes were getting a glazed look. "I wouldn't know how. This is too much. I'll be more comfortable in the forest, you should just – "

"Liam, trust me, I know it's hard, but you're not just an animal, you have to – "

"NO!" Liam's eyes went golden again, tufts of brown hair sprouting on his lengthening ears, hands twisting and nails scything into paws and claws, as he went half into wolf shape before he could control himself. At this Henry remembered the silver chains in his briefcase and thought it might be a wise idea to apply them again posthaste, but that was also what you would do with a misbehaving animal: lock it in its kennel and subdue it for its own good, and thus it would be a bit hypocritical of him to reach them so quickly. So, even though his knees were quaking, he made himself stand his ground, waiting until the moment had passed and Liam had resumed full human form. "Besides," he said, clearly struggling to think how to express himself logically. "I need – need to hunt. Please let – let go. Let me go."

Henry hesitated. "Fine," he said at last. "Go hunt. But please try to come back here for the night, all right? We'll split the difference. Don't go sleep under some rotted log."

"Do my best." Liam was already moving for the door, pulling it open so hard that it almost flew off its hinges, and stalking down the stairs into the pool of wan glow from the house lights. The instant he stepped out of it, Henry saw his shadow writhe and twist and contort, heard something large and four-legged running away into the brush, and was briefly unable to repress a terrible thought that Gold had trained his slave to eat things aside from other animals. Liam would be able to resist, though, surely. Definitely wasn't going to go munch on some poor local farmer, although the farmer's livestock might not be as lucky. Oh God, they definitely had to get out of here tomorrow. Assuming nothing else occurred to delay them.

Starving as he was, and even as tasty as barbecue sounded, Henry couldn't quite work up an appetite to go down to the restaurant by himself. With one more nervous peer through the curtains to assure himself there was nobody out there, he got out his computer and set it on the rickety desk, then discovered of course that the Ethernet port was located in the most inconveniently imaginable place relative to it. Swearing, he managed after extensive redecoration to get the computer jacked in, then spent a further fifteen minutes performing impromptu tech support in an attempt to actually connect to the network. Finally, after getting stuck on the launch page three times, he entered in the username and password that had come with the cable and opened up Google like a dying man spotting water in the desert.

With that, Henry got to work scouring every database that his Harvard credentials could get him into remotely, as well as some of those where he had done his research on vampires after finding out his mother was one. He didn't know if there would be anything on how to break a mesmer on a wolf, though, since that was not something that ever happened in the ordinary course of things. He did discover something from Germany called a "Beerwolf," which made him laugh for about ten minutes picturing a blonde, square-jawed Wolfgang von Wolfer whose powers came from a strong tankard of stout, until he discovered to his disappointment that it was just a rhetorical device for Martin Luther to bitch about the Pope. There was also the picturesquely named Gwrgi Garwlwyd, a Welsh werewolf who had supposedly been a dread nemesis of several Arthurian heroes and killed countless numbers of their men; he wondered if that explained Arthur's lasting grudge (he didn't seem like the kind of guy to forgive and forget) and determination to frame wolves for his own dirty deeds. The Valais witch trials of fifteenth-century Switzerland, far less well known than their infamous Salem counterparts, had killed over three hundred suspected wolves, most of whom, knowing the nature of these things, probably hadn't been wolves at all. There was a Mount Lykaion in Greece, supposedly home of the ancient religious cult that had given rise to werewolves, it being the very stem from which the word _lycanthropy_ derived. But the only thing that Henry could see possibly being useful was yet another old book, in this case one from 1615, written by a Frenchman named Jean de Nynauld. He had viewed lycanthropy as a matter to be treated with medicine and science, not magic and superstition, and to this effect had produced a work entitled _De la lycanthropie, transformation et extase des sorciers._ Supposedly there was a modern reprint available, but the original was housed in the library of the Royal Academy of Medicine and Surgery in Seville, Spain.

Henry sat for several moments, praying they would not be forced to make another cross-Atlantic trip, and not even sure if it would contain anything useful whatsoever for curing a problem of this magnitude. _Liber incarcerati_ had already caused quite enough trouble on the mysterious-old-book-about-supernatural-powers front, and if this book could do anything of the same for werewolves that the _Liber_ promised for vampires, surely some ambitious pack leader would have already hied off to get his paws on it. It didn't appear to be a state secret if a contemporary press had reprinted it, but then, that could have been with several judicious edits or alterations. Maybe he'd just try the magic of eBay or Amazon, see if he could get his hands on a copy, _without_ having to book a plane ticket to Spain.

To his delight, Henry discovered that there was an electronic version available through the BNF, which he clicked to download. He wondered what it was about werewolves that had made them such an enduring bogeyman to the rest of human society: was it merely the idea of having a hidden bestial nature, that Jekyll-and-Hyde switch between civilized gentleman and raging monster? If vampires could be traced to the Book of the Dead and the search for immortal life, ultimately achieved at terrible cost, werewolves were a different kind of existential threat, not the external predator but the internal. No one could blame you if a vampire swooped in out of the night and drained your blood, but if you yourself turned into the beast, that was your weakness. That meant you were no longer fit for the society of other humans, and had to be driven out.

He was still sitting, working up the ambition to crack the file open and start combing through it, when he heard a creak on the stairs outside. It could have been just a fellow guest losing the will to live as they beheld their overnight accommodations, or even Liam returning, but Henry doubted he'd be back already (if he came back at all) and considering how on edge he already was, he didn't plan to take that chance. He tensed, closed the computer, and grabbed the silver chains; if worse came to worse he could use them as nunchakus or something. Not that he had ever used nunchakus, but it was better than going empty-handed, and he glanced around for anything else that could be used as a weapon, briefly wishing this was the Bates Motel after all; at least that way there might be a psycho with mommy issues lurking in the bathroom who he could call on for backup. Or this was just Donna coming up to see if everything was all right, and brutally murdering a nice lady in the middle of her bed and breakfast would be a horrible –

A shadow flittered past outside the door, almost too fast to see. Then as Henry tensed all over, bracing for full-house assault, the latch clicked, once and then again. The doorknob sawed back and forth, even as he grabbed the desk chair and couldn't decide whether to wedge it underneath or use it to inflict a body blow (not that either would be useful in deterring a supernatural visitor). Then, as he was still frozen, the door creaked, bent as the plywood folded like paper, and swung open.

"Hello, Professor Nolan," Lily Page said, and smiled, eyes black as coal and fangs as white as snow. "Remember me?"

* * *

Killian and Emma almost held hands on the walk back to the mansion, her fingers curling into the cup of his palm close enough to sense but not quite grasp, as she reminded herself that it was not necessarily something that was going to happen again (at least, not at the present moment) and she had far more pressing issues to worry about than when that might be. Even if she had never felt so good in her life, not even after her feed on Merlin, and Killian himself looked as if his joie de vivre had been considerably upgraded; he was practically skipping. Damn. Vampire orgasms were apparently worth all the hype and then some. She usually felt numb or just mildly satisfied after a one-night stand, but never with any desire to go back and try it again; it had served its purpose, it was over and done with. This was different. It felt like a beginning, not an end, and maybe it would be useful to feel like she had something to fight for, a possible future, something beyond just returning to her solitary life as a bail bondsperson, saving the world only to go back to the status quo. That was as much as she could allow herself to imagine just now, however, and she determinedly pushed the rest of it away. They would return, reconnoiter with Regina, and get to work like professionals, see if Merlin could give them a clue on where to start looking for the solution on how to free him. As for Gold. . . she had knocked him out for the second with her new powers, but that had been entirely by accident, and God only knew what would happen if she tried it a second time.

They reached the mansion, pulled their hands apart, straightened their clothing, and stepped inside; apparently either Gold's invitation still held, or since they had overthrown him, they had "won" the house's allegiance and it now considered them to be its masters. As they stepped into the kitchen, a red-eyed Regina glanced up, sneezed, considered them, sighed deeply, and then said, "Finally. Can we get back to business now?"

"What?" Emma did her very best not to sound like a schoolgirl being caught behind the dumpsters with her boyfriend by the principal. "I – did you take another daylight shot?"

"Yes." Regina sneezed again, looking baleful, as she wiped her eyes; she was clearly suffering from it after her extensive use of them in the recent past. "Some of us have been trying to do work while the two of you were frolicking in the daisies. Do whatever you like in the bedroom, but no PDA in front of me. Just tell me I'm not going to have to deal with any magical babies."

"What?" Emma repeated again, horrified. "Wait, is that something that can actually _happen?"_

Regina rolled her eyes. "No. You're dead, you can't have children. If you want more, you turn them. Honestly, it would have saved everyone a hell of a lot of trouble if my crazy sister could just get herself knocked up the old-fashioned way to satisfy her clingy psychotic mothering urge, but since she can't, it fell on you. So you won't be bearing any miniature clench-jawed, blue-eyed, brooding guyliner goths in the future, thankfully. Sit down and take a look at this."

Emma, still smarting, nonetheless did so and flipped through the pages that Regina had spread on the kitchen table. They appeared to be handwritten notebook leaves of some sort, which she couldn't work out how it might help them until it struck her that they must be from Gold's personal copy of the _Liber,_ his working instructions, and her jaw dropped. "Can you read it?"

"Do I look like a Latin scholar?" Regina said tersely. "I was waiting for your boyfriend here to get back and give me a hand, if that wasn't too much to ask. Killian, does it make any sense?"

Before Killian could make a smart remark about how she better not strain anything asking for his help, Emma whacked him on the arm, and he shut his mouth, looking wounded. Then he leaned over the pages, frowning and muttering as he struggled to discern Gold's illegible handwriting. "No. This isn't Latin, it's some kind of cypher. Likely for this exact reason, so nobody could read it even if they somehow managed to steal it. Where did you get it? Turn him upside down and shake his pockets out?"

"No. I know where he likes to hide things." Regina looked annoyed at the implication that she would have to resort to such a low-brow tactic to acquire information. "And I moved him away from Merlin and set up some extra wards, so we could have a chance to talk to him without Gold overhearing. Again, while you were frisking in the meadow. You're welcome."

Emma desperately wanted to make some remark back, but as Regina _did_ have a point, no matter how untactfully phrased, she bit her tongue. Still, it wasn't as if she wanted their precious time to be entirely spent in barbs about her apparently revivified sex life. "Yes, all right, moving on. How much longer do you honestly think we're going to be able to hold him prisoner?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure he isn't playing us." Regina's exquisitely tweezed eyebrows drew into a frown. "If he was already awake from the stabbing, the silver chains shouldn't be able to hold him, and he went out a bit too conveniently for my taste when you used that new power on him. He's been drinking from Merlin for God knows how long – whatever ability it gives you, he has more of it. I imagine he doesn't think he's in any real danger – well, he knows he isn't, since we can't kill him – and is acting helpless to lure us into making a mistake. The only thing out of place with that is why he'd let Henry and Liam get away, but. . . he's been manipulating everyone for centuries. He's _very_ good at it. It's entirely possible we're going exactly where he wants us to, and thinking it makes us safer."

Emma and Killian exchanged a troubled frown. The safe evacuation of their loved ones had been what felt like the greatest victory to come of this entire messy affair to date, and she had to fight down a sudden nervous urge to call Henry and ask where he was – if she did that, Gold would indeed get exactly what he wanted. "Has Merlin said anything else?"

"That man is just as useful as your average politician," Regina said disdainfully. "Besides, he insisted he would only talk to the _universus._ One more round of nookie, or do you think you can handle it?"

"Bloody hell, Regina." Killian rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Just because nobody's interested in bedding _you,_ doesn't mean you need to take it out on those of the fairer sex who are far more fortunate. If Emma wants to enjoy unusually satisfying and athletic congress with a devilishly handsome gentleman at any point in the future, all she has to do is ask. As for you, I'm sure they offer discounted subscriptions to _Playgirl_ for the chronically single."

Regina opened her mouth but made no sound for a full five seconds. Emma resisted the urge to high-five Killian with all her might and instead said, "I don't appreciate _either_ of you jokers cracking wise about completely irrelevant matters when we still have this. If we can talk to Merlin again, I'm going to do that. You two can sit here and snipe at each other all you like."

With that, she got up and marched coolly to the head of the stairs, hearing both Regina and Killian hurry to follow after a moment. She descended into the cellar, which looked just as unwelcoming as before, and bearing in mind what Regina had said about Gold possibly playing them, turned her head in every direction in case he was lurking in the corner and preparing to spring. But it seemed as if he was either still locked up, or still playing possum, because the only sight was Merlin's cage at the far end, and the imprisoned sorcerer sitting tranquilly within. She wondered if he himself needed to eat or drink or perform any bodily functions at all; he was immortal, but technically still human, right? Then again, if the cage was some sort of stasis, it might keep him locked at one single moment in time, and perhaps that was why he couldn't get out. If so, freeing him might be either a mere (ha) matter of connecting the cage back to regular existence, or it might be completely and utterly impossible.

"Ah," Merlin said, seeing them coming (that was, if he hadn't already – could you control foresight, or was it just what the whims of the future decided to show you?) "So it has happened, then? You and him?"

"I – wait, what?" Emma stared at him. "If _you_ are also making a reference to my – to my – what are you, Gossip Wizard? Could everyone just forget about it and please – "

"My apologies," Merlin said, although he appeared to be biting his cheek. "It was only that I _had_ seen the two of you together at one point – or at least I thought I had, I couldn't be sure. And. . . well. This changes things."

"What? How? For good or bad?"

"Good," Merlin answered composedly. "So I certainly hope, at least. But it's your choices that will be the difference, Emma, so remember that. The future is not fixed, only possibilities shaped to one end or the other. You've started on one path. But it can always change."

"Christ, you're as useful as a bloody magic-8 ball," Killian muttered. "Shake and get a different mumbo-jumbo mystical answer every time. Why can't you be _specific_ for once?"

Merlin regarded him levelly. "The last time I decided to actively take the future in hand, to force the possibilities I saw to become truth, Nimue fell into darkness and turned the Book of the Dead into bloodlust and terror and the rise of an entirely new breed of monster. As you may imagine, it served as a sharp lesson as to the perils of trying it again."

"You must have something you want to happen. Gold defeated, Nimue's misdeeds mended, whatever bloody else – yes?"

"Indeed, I can certainly hope for a favorable outcome."

"Then tell us what to do!"

"I have already said it does not work like that," Merlin said, still mildly but with an underlying sharpness in his tone. "I am not a vending machine that you can put a quarter into and receive the desired future or plan of action of your choice. Free will is a powerful thing, Killian Jones, and you of all men should know that best. This is what hurts you so painfully about this situation with your brother and Gold, isn't it? That you should have fought so hard and so long to defy the corrupt slave masters of Imperial Britain, to give up so much, and then yet find him in this thrall so deep, it seems easier to just swim down? You think that if perhaps you both had not objected to slavery so fiercely, defied the orders of the Royal Navy so often, he would have just become commodore and none of this would have ever happened. Don't you?"

Killian stared at him for a long moment, patches of color burning in his otherwise dead-white cheekbones, eyes flushed close to black, enough so that Emma reached out an involuntary hand to steady him. Then he growled, "So don't read my bloody mind then, sorcerer. It's a bit of a contradiction if you do, isn't it?"

Merlin inclined his head. "Apologies. But you do think rather loudly. And as a man who was once a slave myself, whose life and death and very right to existence depended absolutely on the pharaohs I too was risking everything to defy, I can tell you that it mattered. It always does. Everywhere. Every time. That, if nothing else, I've learned."

Killian stared a moment longer, unblinking and intent as a panther in the scrub, until he finally jerked his head up and stepped away, leaving the way clear for Emma to approach. "We need to get you out of that cage," she said. "Restore you to your full powers so you can really help us. Get Gold in there instead so he's powerless, and then we can kill him."

Merlin regarded her with those inscrutable, star-flecked eyes. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Why? Is it the wrong choice?"

"I did not say that. It could be the right one. But it is beyond all doubt very, very dangerous."

"I'll tell you what's dangerous, mate," Killian said. "Letting Gold take over the world. I think we'll run the risk."

"If you say so," Merlin replied, still in that carefully measured tone. "Only remember that the question always remains as to how far we are willing to go to stop our enemies, even if it means turning into them. You've fought the darkness for a long time, Killian. Don't let that be in vain."

Killian glared, but didn't answer, and Emma put her hand back on his arm, feeling the tension rippling through it and wanting to soothe him, but also just wanting to touch him; she had felt a faint itching tingle in her fingers as if they had been too far away from him, ripped unpleasantly from the flesh of their other half. "So," she said, as authoritatively as she could. "If we did decide on that course of action, how might we go about doing it?"

"There is a certain scale," Merlin answered after a moment. "Quite unremarkable to look on. It is used in a trial. The weighing of the heart by the god Osiris. Or as you have learned – " he looked straight at her – "the _universus._ Are you familiar with the story?"

"No," Emma said, at the same time Killian said, "Yes."

"Very well," Merlin said, glancing at her. "In short, the Egyptians believed that when a soul died, they faced judgment in the court of the gods Osiris and his assistant, Anubis. There was a scale, and on one side was placed a feather; on the other, the individual's heart. If the heart and the feather balanced, the person had lived a virtuous life and was worthy to enter the realm of the gods, a place of eternal paradise. If, however, the heart was heavier than the feather, they had not, and were thrown to demons to be devoured."

Killian winced. "No prizes for guessing what side Gold would end up on, then? Or I would?"

"Hey." Emma slid her fingers down to take his hand, squeezing briefly. "You're not Gold."

He looked back at her bleakly, clearly not believing an inch of this, and she felt her own heart clench painfully. Turning back to Merlin, she said, "So what would we do? Use it to free you, and then use it to subject Gold to his fate?"

"It's not that easy," Merlin said. "To use the scale – for you to become Osiris, to master the mysteries of life and death – requires a terrible sacrifice. That is the destiny of the _universus,_ you know. And when the time comes, you must decide if defeating the evil you face is worth the price you will have to pay."

Emma felt a sudden chill, what would have been called a goose walking over her grave, if she had one. Nonetheless, to disguise it, she threw her head back and squared her shoulders. "Guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she said coolly. "So where's the scale? Asgard? Are we going to have to figure how to open the damn Bifrost first?"

Merlin looked at her with a raised eyebrow, although she thought a man who had copped to being a Dumbledore fanboy would have appreciated that reference. "No," he said. "Somewhere much closer to home. It's in storage at the British Museum. It came as part of the collection with the Rosetta Stone. Nobody has ever realized what it was, apart from Egyptology miscellanea."

"Wait." Emma felt something freeze solid inside her. "Did you say the British Museum? As in London? That British Museum?"

"Yes. Is there another?"

 _Oh, God._ She had to tell herself there was no way Arthur, Nimue, and Zelena could know that already, or they would have swooped in to pick it up the first instant they had a chance – but Nimue was the one who had put Merlin into this cage, and she must have some way to know or hear what he did in it. Maybe not everything, no. . . but this might possibly even be the reason she had imprisoned him in the first place, if he wouldn't tell her everything he knew about the magic of the Book of the Dead and the spells he had worked in Egypt, if she had been hoping to learn this the entire time and Emma had just put it in her hands –

"Swan?" That was Killian, holding onto her arm, speaking low and urgently in her ear. "Swan, love, Emma, what's – " He stopped. "Oh, bloody hell."

"London?" At that, Regina got it as well. "You mean, exactly where you thought it was a great idea to _send the terrible threesome?"_

"What else was I supposed to do?" Emma snapped. "Let them burn down the house or hand myself over to them? Perhaps that would have been your solution, Your Majesty, but it wasn't mine. As for this, maybe – maybe they won't find it out. Maybe Nimue will just look for the fake _Liber incarcerati_ instead. We – we might have time, she can't just have telepathically known this instantly. I don't think so. We can come up with something, or call Will, or – "

At that, there was a low, dark chuckle from the corner. "You know, dearies, it's so very enjoyable to see you scrambling like rats off a sinking ship. So enjoyable, in fact, that I'm going to leave you to it. You see, it doesn't matter a single, infinitesimal smidgeon if any or all them find it, or even try to find it. Because now _I_ know where it is at last, and that, Miss Swan, is the greatest proof you can possibly have of the fact that your word is binding, no matter how hard you tried to defy me. You have given your consent to help me, and look. Here we are."

They spun around in horror. Stared.

"I'll send a postcard," Gold said, and vanished.


	18. Chapter 18

**London, 1872**

As she strode down the gangway with one hand clamped to her hat, thus to prevent the cold coal-smelling wind from whisking it off like a thief, the porter bumping behind with her steamer trunk and her legs still somewhat unaccustomed to dry land after close to a month at sea – the passage was supposed to be only two weeks, but they'd hit terrible weather halfway across – Regina Mills did her utmost not to look like a provincial American setting foot on cultured English soil for the first time, even if that was exactly what she was. It was an unsociable hour for arrival, being half past nine on a windy April night, but as there was no other option, at least she had the place more or less to herself. She had put it about on the ship that she was suffering from a female hysterical complaint that rendered her utterly unable to come out in daylight, and the staff nodded sympathetically, female hysterical complaints being widely accepted as the cause of all ills, up to and including too much novel reading and subsequent Bad Ideas. It was scandalous enough that she, a young lady of breeding, was traveling without a chaperone, so Regina furtherly posed as a recent and tragic widow, en route to her late husband's family in England in hopes they would take her in. This was, in her mind, barely a lie at all. How ironic, how bitterly, brutally ironic that Daniel had survived the slaughter of Gettysburg, her soldier boy in blue, and come home promising to marry her – only to be murdered before her eyes by Lady Cora, who refused to let such a peon father her grandchildren, and which taught Regina in an instant that not all monsters wore Confederate grey. The Mills family was recently wealthy and permanently conscientious of that fact, and Lady Cora refused to let her daughter's childhood dalliance get in the way of securing her match to Leopold White, a much older financier and industrialist. Had it all sorted and planned, beyond a doubt. It would be perfectly proper.

Regina's lips drew back over her teeth in a grim smile. She almost wished she could send a telegram to her mother and tell her where she was, but that ran too much risk of Cora's interference. Oh, but this was sweet. Heartbroken and vengeful, she had gone digging into her mother's past, after hearing rumors that Cora had also had an illicit liaison or two with unsuitable men, and found the name of one in particular: Lord Robert Fitzmalcolm, a mysterious British peer better known simply as "Gold." Had sought him out, the gentleman then being on an extended visit to America to make a profit off Reconstruction, and discovered the truth of just who – and what – he was. _Do you want to live forever, Regina?_ he asked. _Do you want to have real power? Do you want to be far greater than your mother ever was?_

And she did. Oh, but how very, very much she did. It was the serpent and the apple in the Garden, and she took it and bit it deep (or rather, it bit _her_ deep). No penitent, remorseful Eve for her, no faceless woman doomed to suffer in the birthing bed. She embraced her transformation wholeheartedly, as violent and painful as it had been, and three months later, she murdered Leopold on their wedding night and drained him dry. Nothing had ever tasted so sweet as that, as intoxicating. She was young and out of control and drunk on the taste of freedom and danger, and when she came to, she was horrified. She needed to go to London, she decided, and find her sire. Needed him to teach her everything she needed to know about how to be a proper vampire. Needed to find the rest of her new family. They'd be more for her than her flesh-and-blood one ever had. If they could just unite their aims, they would be unstoppable.

She reached the bottom of the gangplank, glancing about for a hansom or a cabriolet she could hail to take her to Chelsea; all she knew was that Gold lived there, but not exactly where. But since very few passengers disembarked at this hour, the normally bustling port of entry was almost deserted, except for a scatter of drunken longshoremen loitering by the quay. One of them shouted at her, and Regina felt her spine stiffen, the instinctive response of a woman alone faced with threatening male attention – but if they actually tried anything, she could dismember them with barely the twitch of one elegant finger. For his part, the porter looked extremely dubious. "Mum, are you quite sure it's proper, mum? Leaving you here by yourself?"

"I paid you to carry my trunk," Regina said coldly. "Not to be my nursemaid. Go."

The porter didn't look convinced, but slowly let down the trunk with a thud. The longshoremen had taken a few further staggers in her direction, sensing opportunity, and Regina flexed the muscles of her jaw, producing her fangs in case their use should imminently be called for. But she didn't even start to get the chance. At that moment, something flashed out of the shadows too fast to see, whirled around the drunkards like the lash of a whip, and the next instant, they were flat on their backs, broken like old toys, one of them clutching at his belly where his guts had been torn open and another wheezing through a torn windpipe, gurgling as he drowned in his own blood. The third was completely headless, stump oozing gore onto the weathered wood of the docks, and the fourth, by the sound of things, had just landed with a splash in the Thames.

Regina stood transfixed to the spot, too shocked to make a sound, as the blur slowed, spun to a halt, and resolved itself into the shape of a man, dressed in an impeccably cut and tailored suit of black serge with a brocaded red vest, dark hair tousled attractively and blue eyes gleaming with feral amusement. There was still blood running down his chin as he licked his fangs clean, sauntering toward her and the terrified porter with no apparent hurry. "Good evening, love," he said, grinning. "Should have told me you were coming."

The porter let out a shriek and tried to bolt. He hadn't gotten more than a few yards when the vampire caught him with barely an effort, hauled him back, and said, "Sorry, mate, can't have you tattling." With that and an easy flick of his wrist, he broke the young man's neck, leaned in and bit it, took a few leisurely swallows, then tossed him negligently with the dead longshoremen. "Tastes like Cockney," he said with a grimace. _"Such_ coarse vintage."

"Who – who are you?" Regina stammered. He was clearly at least a century older than her and considerably stronger, and if he decided to have his way with her, she couldn't do much to stop it. Sudden panic flooded her, as well as anger. When she had accepted the gift, it was with the determination that nobody would be stronger than her again, nobody would control her destiny. No matter what she had to do – it didn't matter, whatever was necessary, anything –

"Don't look at me like that." He wiped his chin on the cuff of his shirt, leaving a lurid scarlet streak on the pressed white linen. "I wouldn't hurt _you_. I'm your brother."

"Br – brother?" It occurred to her that he must be another of Gold's vampire children, sent to welcome her to London. Perhaps he had just been defending her honor from any potential assault, even if rather vigorously, and she stiffly inclined her head. "I – I'm Miss Regina Mills."

"I heard he'd turned some little American wench." He surveyed her up and down with not entirely flattering regard. "What did he do to you? Murder your love, hang you from the rack, just stand there talking for three bloody days and you couldn't shut him up? You must be very angry at him. I understand, love. Trust me. We can help each other."

"What?" Regina frowned. "I don't – who even _are_ you?"

"Oh, heavens. Where on earth are my manners?" He flourished a bow, took her hand, and pressed a scrupulously correct kiss upon it. "Killian Bartholomew Jones, mademoiselle, at your most devoted service."

Regina bobbed an awkward curtsy, still feeling a bit too country-bumpkin for her taste. Despite her mother's best efforts, the Millses had never been invited to intermingle in the truly elite social circles, those of the Rockefellers and Astors and Vanderbilts, and six months making the rounds of the New York debutante scene had left her feeling as if she had disappointed Cora more than anything else. "Mr. – Mr. Jones, it's so kind of you to meet me, I'd feared – well, it _is_ rather late, and I'm not entirely certain where our – our father lives." That part came a bit hard, as she much loved her real father and was still planning to get him out of her mother's clutches someday, but by blood right, Gold _was_ her sire. "Can you possibly escort me to his house?"

"What?" It was Killian Jones' turn to look at her strangely. "What are you talking about? How can you possibly want to _go_ there? And if I could get near the place, we wouldn't be having this conversation, because he would have been dead and dust long before he had a chance to turn you. Are you saying you _want_ to see him? Bloody hell, what's wrong with you?"

"What's _wrong_ with me?" Regina was belatedly realizing that both of them had atrociously misread the situation. She thought he was there to conduct her safely to Gold, and he thought – well, she wasn't entirely sure what he thought, but he seemed to have a vendetta against their sire that bordered on the terminally obsessive, thinking she wanted to help kill him or worse. "What's wrong with _you?_ This is my chance for power, for becoming strong enough to punish my mother for what she did, and you're not going to ruin it. You should be on your way, sir."

Killian laughed. It was not a pleasant sound, and it made her fangs, which she had almost retracted, thinking herself out of danger, abruptly re-emerge. "Are you telling me, madam, that you _chose_ to have him turn you? It wasn't something he inflicted on you, some wanton destruction, but something you see as a blessing and wanted to take on?"

"Yes." Regina thought of her silver-tipped parasol in the steamer trunk, wondered if she could get it out quick enough to stab him if he lunged. "He wasn't the one who killed my love. My _mother_ took care of that long before he ever had the chance. Besides, Lord Robert is a gentleman of quality, he wouldn't – "

"You have no idea what you've walked into, do you, pet?" At that, Killian's posh, upper-crust accent broke and roughened into a contemptuous drawl. "No idea who he really is or what he wants with you. If you want to jump into the snakepit, I suppose that's your affair, but really, I can't in conscience let you. Why don't we have a friendly chat?"

Regina wasn't sure he meant friendly at all, especially given the look on his face, but if nothing else, it never hurt to be forewarned. She hesitated a moment longer, then jerked her chin in cool assent. "Very well. But you'd best be brief."

"The soul of it." He bent and retrieved her heavy trunk with one hand, then offered her his free arm with grandiose courtesy, and she took it, letting him escort her up the dock stairs to the street, where he had a hackney waiting. He seemed utterly unconcerned about what would happen when the authorities discovered the four dead men piled on the dock in heaps of entrails; riffraff such as that met sticky ends all the time, and despite her revulsion, Regina admired the cool, matter-of-fact way in which he did his killing. That was the kind of power that made you feared, that left a mark. As he heaved her trunk onto the rack, then handed her up into the carriage and pulled the door shut, rapping on the roof to signal the coachman to drive, he said, "So, sis. Late supper before we retire?"

"Indeed, I am rather hungry." It had been slim pickings on the voyage; Regina had finally been reduced to dining on the six spoiled and infuriating little yappy dogs of the lady in the suite next door, which at least gave her the satisfaction of chucking their furry corpses into the sea like cannonballs once she'd drained them. But animal blood was only a temporary holdover, as well as causing a sudden urge for her to run around barking and nipping at everyone's ankles, and she couldn't bring herself to drag one of the other passengers off into a dark corner and chomp down. She'd have to learn how to shed those inhibitions of gentle breeding, of ladylike decorum and reserve. It didn't switch off overnight, much as she wanted it to.

Killian smiled, leaned out the window to say something to the coachman, and they rattled off down a dizzying maze of dark lanes that Regina gave up trying to follow, finally emerging in a somewhat seedy district of Covent Garden (or so Killian told her, as she wouldn't have known otherwise) and rolling to a halt before a public house called the Hook and Compass. The coachman opened the door, Killian exchanged another low-voiced word, and stepped out, handing Regina down. While she was still about to protest that this was much too common an establishment for her to be spotted in, as if the old rules still applied, he strode for the door, pushed it open, said, "Are you coming?" and vanished inside.

Supposing that qualified as an invitation, Regina cautiously ventured after him, whereupon she was hit in the face with the blast of an inferno. It was hot, dim, and smoky, the same as any usual tavern, but as everyone's heads swiveled in unison to appraise the newcomer, she realized they were all vampires, men and women alike. Puffing on cheroots, sipping blood aperitifs, reading the evening papers, playing dice and cards and engaging in other sort of disreputable transactions in dark corners – it was clearly a supernatural supper club and safe house, or at least for one breed of supernatural. There was no hint of werewolf, not that that was at all surprising. Mixing the two on any sort of consistent basis was no recipe for harmonious relations, and the carnage of the war wasn't limited to the human one. Wolves and vampires had been fighting just as bitterly as Union and Confederate, the result of hundreds of years of grudges reaching boiling point with the rest of the country, and it had been decided that the only way to proceed was to establish them as separate but equal races. Some of the more zealous reformers had been calling for a new immortal rapprochement, but that seemed as likely as bringing any kind of equality to the freed Negroes of the South. And from the looks of things, the Hook and Compass was not going to be signing any petitions or placing any newspaper ads on their behalf. A stuffed wolf's head was mounted behind the bar, the lighting fixtures were made of mummified paws clutching gaslamps, and furs draped the chaises in the corner. Whoever owned this establishment clearly had a burning and personal hatred for them, and Regina quickened her pace to keep up with her newfound brother. "Well, this is perfectly horrible. Why did you bring me here?"

"Don't insult my place of business, sis. I bought it a few decades ago, turned it into a haven for those of London's vampire crowd who'd as soon avoid You-Know-Who and the problems he causes for the rest of us. You're entirely safe. . . as long as you're with me."

"Couldn't purchase taste, I see." Regina arched an eyebrow. "All those wolves – your doing?"

"I daresay so, yes. They haven't managed to establish a new London pack for the last fifty years at least." He shrugged, then grinned. "I seem to have killed too many of them."

"Why do you hate wolves so much?"

"I don't believe that's remotely your business, darling."

Regina supposed that irrational and unfettered hatred of another race was hardly an uncommon feature in her world. The Mills family and their social circle were all staunch Unionists, but she had heard countless of her father's friends remarking that it was simply science that the colored man was inferior to the white, not prejudice, and thus whatever laws emerged from the chaos of the war should only reflect this as a matter of nature. Whether the makers of these remarks took into account the fact that Henry Mills himself was a mulatto, born of a Spanish Caribbean mother and a white father, was not clear, but she had always suspected that they did, and purposefully. It was thus doubly important that she be finished and polished, that she fit into proper society, and that she called no further shame on her less-than-desirable origins. Not that she sympathized with the werewolves, but still, it made her wonder just how different Killian Jones actually was from the man he professed to hate so much. Not that it was a disqualifier. She was more than ready to learn a little ruthlessness of her own.

"I suppose you're right," she said with a demure smile. Somewhat to her confusion, she wanted to please him. She had never had a sibling before, growing up with the weight of her mother's expectations and manipulations heaped on her head, and she had a faint sense that he was hungry, almost painfully and desperately so, to have that kind of relationship with her. "Now, you said something about supper?"

"Indeed. Step this way, if you would."

Regina followed him into the narrow, dark corridor at the back, to a door which he unlocked, and down a set of steps to a dank cellar. She was just about to remark that this looked terribly unaesthetic for a mealtime (no matter what you were eating, you liked things to look nice while you did) when Killian shoved through one more door and into a low stone cellar. It smelled overwhelmingly of terrified human, and the reason for it was instantly apparent. A dozen people, household servants to guess from their frumpy starched livery, were crowded inside, and at the sight of the two vampires, almost climbed the walls trying to back away. Killian regarded them with sour amusement, shut the door behind them, and remarked, "Well? Take your pick."

"This – this is against the law." Regina couldn't remember the date of the edict exactly, sometime early in the previous century, but she did know that hunting or harvesting ignorant humans for food had been illegal for a good long time. "I didn't know you meant this."

"Then count yourself endlessly fortunate that I was waiting for you at the docks, because with such a tender conscience as you seem to possess, you would have been literally eaten alive the instant you set foot in Gold's humble abode. Which, incidentally, is where this lot is from. They're all his staff, so nobody will be there to welcome poor Robert when he returns from his latest night of malfeasance. Nobody to stoke the fire or pour him a tippler of blueblood, quite tragic. And you certainly don't know this yet, but humans taste best when they're terrified. All that extra adrenaline, it gives it a most delicious zest. You'll see."

Regina wasn't sure that snacking on his servants was the best way to endear herself to her new father, the man who she hoped would open doors into the vampire world for her. Still, it would if nothing else prove that she wasn't afraid of him, and she had a feeling that mercy was not a character trait that Gold particularly valued. And making herself as hard as them was the only way she would ever get revenge for Daniel, and she certainly did not intend to let him down. "All right then," she said. "How do I start?"

"Oh, it's quite simple." Killian smirked. "I'm going to give them a chance to escape, to get home safely. Furthermore, I've mesmered them to tell their master that you were responsible for what happened to them, which I imagine would rather damage your chances of starting off on the right foot. If you want to stop them, or you want to feed, you'll just have to catch them."

With that, he strode to another door at the far side of the cellar and pulled it open to reveal an underground passage, one of the countless secret tunnels that crisscrossed under the city. "I'll give them a quarter-hour head start," he said. "That should be just enough to make it interesting. Three. . . two. . . one. . . go!"

Barely waiting for it, the servants ran past him, scuttling into the sewers like rats, and Regina instinctively started after them, but Killian caught her arm. "Ah-ah-ah. I said they got a head start, remember? Can't take _all_ the suspense out of it. Besides, you might want to use the time to prepare. I suspect you'll find it difficult to get far in a corset, crinoline, and heels, even with vampire abilities. So go on, take it off. Give a fellow a peek?"

Regina stared at him. "You're my _brother."_

Killian shrugged. "Aye, strictly speaking. Though I wouldn't say you're my type anyway, don't worry. I prefer women with more bite than you."

 _Bite, eh?_ Regina paused, thought of how utterly infuriated it would make her mother, and started to undress, pulling off her heavy outer garments and cumbersome skirts, loosening her bodice, and even broke the spindly heel off her fashionable red morocco buttoned boots, wincing at the sacrifice. Then, checking that Killian wasn't looking, she drew the sharpened whalebone busk out of her corset and took a good grip. It wasn't silver, so it wouldn't do any permanent damage, but it would at least hurt, and as she got a better grasp of this game, she didn't intend to play by his rules. As he was turning back around, evidently thus to get his incestuous eyeful, she swung her arm up and stabbed him in the chest.

He yelled, stumbling backwards, and in the instant of time this bought her, Regina bolted down the passage after the escaped servants, following the sharp tang of their fear. In this at least Killian appeared to be right; it was almost tangible on her tongue, making her mouth water with visions of how delicious it must taste, and for the first time in her life, free of all expectations and restrictions, she ran as fast and as hard as she wanted to. She overlapped the first of the servants within moments, tried to break his neck as she'd seen Killian do on the docks, realized it wasn't that easy, and had to use the mesmer to get him to stop thrashing, fumbling and straining until it finally separated with a wet pop and the man lolled lifelessly. But in the interlude of time this had lost her, the others, fueled by animal terror, had managed to open up a wider lead, and she was not making hay of her chance like this. She lowered her head and lit out.

The others were deep in the tunnels, scrabbling to find a ladder back to the streets, and it was a damp, dark, labyrinthine maze that grew wilder and wilder. Regina, with her vampire vision, had the advantage, and one by one she caught them, killed them (it got somewhat easier each time, though she briefly had to stop her hands from shaking) and on the last one, finally took the pleasure of the feed before she put him out of his misery. Killian was right about that; it was singular. Far better than lapdogs, that was for damned certain, and it was only as she was coming down from the ecstasy of the feed that she suddenly realized she had forgotten someone. This hadn't been the last after all. And now the stray must be almost all the way home, ready to spill his mesmered lie into Gold's lap and destroy her new life before it began.

With a snarl, Regina flung the exsanguinated corpse down and broke into a sprint, feet splashing in the muck, as she scented him in a tunnel nearby, climbing madly for the surface. Yet even when she flashed in a few moments later, he was out of sight, and she realized he must be a drone, fed on regularly by Gold and hence granted a measure of vampire powers. She burned up the ladder like a lightning strike in reverse, sprang out onto the dark London street at the top, was nearly run over by a speeding carriage, ducked and changed course, and locked onto the fleeing figure at the far end of the alley, tracking him and out of the twisting closes, through the glows of gaslight and back into darkness, and then finally to the threshold of a handsome townhouse, whereupon he jerked the door open and vanished within.

Regina screeched to a halt, staring madly at it, realizing it must be Gold's own residence and well aware that she had no way to stop the survivor from telling his master that she was supposedly responsible for these depredations and the murder of the rest of the staff (well, at that part he would be correct, but Killian had made her do it, forced her hand). Thus her surprise was complete when the door cracked open and a soft, Scottish-accented voice said, "Regina, dearie. That must be you. I've been wondering when you'd make it."

"I. . ." She was filthy, blood-stained, utterly unfit for calling on anyone, much less the man she hoped would take her on as protégé and apprentice, and she awkwardly wiped her hands on her skirt. "Lord Robert, I. . . the servant, whatever he said, it wasn't because of me, I – "

"The servant?" Gold seemed amused. "Oh yes, him. You don't think I was clumsy enough to let my _actual_ household get kidnapped, did you? Anyone who knew any of my secrets and could possibly spill them to my detriment? No, those were all expendable. I have no doubt that Killian Jones tried valiantly, but as usual, he failed, and that should demonstrate to you how pointless it is to continue associating with him. Hopefully you were wise enough to make the right choice?"

"Of course I was." Regina pushed away a faint twinge of guilt. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"So you are," Gold agreed, "and you have a great deal to learn. Do come in."

Thus invited, Regina mounted the steps and crossed the threshold, and he gave her a look of well-mannered disapproval of her bedraggled state, pointing her through to a small washing-up room. "Get yourself tidied up," he said, "and I'll be in the parlor."

Regina did her best to repair herself, stamping off the mud and scrubbing the blood off her hands and face, but could only do so much about her torn and shed clothing. She wrapped herself in a dressing gown hanging on a peg, then slicked the waving tendrils of hair out of her eyes and supposed she looked as fit for company as could be imagined. Kicking off her broken, filthy boots, she walked regally down the lushly carpeted corridor, confident as a queen, and into the intimate drawing room at the rear of the house. Gold sat in one wing-backed armchair before a gaily burning fire, and beckoned her to occupy the other. "So," he said. "Whatever possessed you to listen for an instant to that ne'er-do-well?"

Regina chose her words carefully. "I had nothing to do with it. He was lying in wait at the dock when I came off the ship, he killed a few humans who thought they'd cause mischief. Then he took me to his public house and revealed his imbecilic little trap."

"You were tempted, though," Gold said. "Briefly."

"I. . ." She hesitated. "I never had a sibling growing up."

Gold laughed out loud. "Oh, _that's_ why? Really, my dear. The irony is truly everywhere. Because I'm here to let you know that you have one. A sister. Half-sister, actually. Her name is Zelena."

"Wh. . ." Regina felt punched, as if all the air had been driven out of her lungs in a blow. "What? No, no, I don't. Mother and Father never mentioned – "

"Oh," Gold said. "They wouldn't. Zelena is the product of a youthful mistake your mother made, which upon discovery of her predicament, she took quick steps to rectify. Your sister was abandoned at birth and sent to a miserable children's home out West – Kansas Territory or somewhere utterly provincial like that." From his tone, a man living in London at the heart of the civilized world and who had haunted the halls of highest power for centuries, this might have been the distant red planet of Mars. "It took me quite a while to locate her, and I must say, she certainly seems to hate you for growing up in luxury and comfort while she slaved her fingers to the bone. If she was ever to become a vampire, it would be rather dangerous for you."

"Wha. . ." Regina still felt as if she had been thrown from a high window, crashed into the ground and broken all her bones. "Growing up with my mother was the last thing from comfortable! She's a monster, she murdered Daniel, she's a heartless bitch! If Zelena wanted that, if you aren't just cutting this fable from whole cloth, she's welcome to it!"

"I do understand your anger." Gold's tone dripped with faux sympathy. "How difficult to accept. I certainly hope nobody tells Zelena about what you have become, or I can imagine she'd turn green with envy trying to acquire the same for herself."

"She won't," Regina said automatically. "Why would she?"

"Vengeance?" Gold suggested. "We've already seen it's an efficient motivation. But whether she does, Regina, is entirely dependent on you. You see, there's a certain prophecy which I have spent a very long time trying to riddle out, and which I may finally have grasped. Have you ever heard of something called a _universus?"_

Regina stared at him blankly. "A what? Is that Latin?"

Gold sighed. "Hard to fool you, isn't it? In any event, yes. It is a certain and special vampire, the identity of which I have sought, and which I have come to the conclusion is not yet someone who exists. Moreover, they will be generated of my particular line, through a blood daughter. And you, at present, are my _only_ blood daughter. If you create the _universus_ for me, I'll know that you were the one. If you don't, well. . . I shall have to turn to Zelena."

"I don't understand," Regina said. "You normally have to be at least a hundred to make a new vampire. You only turned me two years ago. If this is true, if it. . . you have to give me a chance. I don't want to fail you. Lord Robert, please, let me – "

"Well, dearie," Gold said. "There's the rum thing. I can't really sit back and wait another ninety-eight years, see if it was you and if not, turn to Zelena who would be dead of old age anyway, and then wait _another_ hundred years to see if it's her. I really will have to change her quite soon. Another five years at most. And I can imagine that much of her new existence as an immortal will be spent dreaming up tedious and ineffective plots to kill you, rather as I have had to endure from that wastrel Jones. Still, though, even a blind squirrel finds a nut or two, and thus she could conceivably get lucky. You'll want to train. You'll want to be ready to face her."

Regina still sat speechless, clutching the arms of her chair. Finally she managed, "What if someone kills you first?"

Gold raised an eyebrow. "I do hope that was not a threat," he said, voice soft and silky with malice. "Please believe me, I have contingency plans for every possible circumstance. My son –adopted son, Baelfire – we've. . . well, I don't think you need to know the details. But we will remain loyal to each other, come what may. And if that means only one of us lives to see the glorious future, so be it. Once I get my hands on the _universus,_ it won't matter anyway."

Regina didn't know what that meant and was fairly sure she wouldn't get an answer besides. "I thought you wanted to help me," she said at last, sounding small to her own ears. "I thought that was why you turned me."

"And who says I don't?" Gold glanced up at her with a slight smile. "Your mother had a few talents in her day, doubtless you could be the same if you put your mind to it. You've already demonstrated admirable pluck. Just one small thing, one little question. When our friend Mr. Jones met you, where did he take you exactly?"

Regina hesitated. She didn't want to do this, not particularly. But it had already been demonstrated by the evening's events that Gold was the one who knew what he was doing, and the one whom therefore she had to please. No matter what Killian Jones hated him for, and she was at least realistic enough to know that Gold must have done plenty of terrible things, she still needed him. "Somewhere in Covent Garden, I don't know where exactly. This is the first time I've been to London. A place called the Hook and Compass, he owns it. It's set up as a sort of underground resistance for the vampires who don't like you."

"Oh?" Gold did not appear outstandingly shocked to hear that most of the other bloodsuckers in London would happily drive the stake through his heart themselves. "No werewolves, I take it?"

"No. He hates them. The entire place is decorated with dead ones. It's rather repulsive, really."

"Regrettable." A strange, thin smile curled Gold's lip. "Well, I'll have to send someone along to collect all those trophies. There might come a time when someone will have to learn exactly how many of their friends and packmates he killed."

"What?" Regina was confused. "You don't work with werewolves, do you?"

"Only one," Gold said. "On a bit of an ad hoc basis. But that's neither here nor there. I can say that you've impressed me, Regina, and that doesn't happen often. Perhaps you won't be totally useless after all, and you do know I want you to be the one to make the _universus,_ don't you?"

"Of course. You can trust me. You don't need to make Z – Zelena a vampire. I'll do what you need, as soon as I'm ready."

Gold evaluated her for a moment longer, as if appreciating her enthusiasm but doubting her ability to pull it off, but then at last he smiled. "Very well, then," he said. "It's a deal. Show me what you can do, and I'll trust you completely. I won't make Zelena a vampire, I'll put all my eggs in your basket. Don't let me down, dearie."

"No," Regina promised. "I most certainly do not intend to."

* * *

**New York, Present Day**

"Bloody hell," Killian said, when any of them had gotten over the shock sufficiently to speak. "I've lived a few hundred yards from the British Museum for over a century, I've been practically on top of the blasted thing this entire time, and now right when I should be there, of course I'm _not?"_

"I'm not entirely certain what good it would do." If Merlin had been shaken by the revelation of Gold eavesdropping and then absconding with the information, it was hard to say. "Indeed, even now, it doesn't matter if he or any of them get their hands on it. The _universus_ is the only one who can use it for its intended purpose, so unless Gold has a pressing need to weigh out a bushel of grain or something of the sort, there's not much he could do with it. Following him to London would therefore be most unwise; he'd get his hands on it and then have you there ready to do his work for him. That is the part, you'll notice, I say now when he isn't listening."

"Did you know he was already free?" Killian regarded the sorcerer with a furious look. "Too much trouble to tip us off somehow, was it?"

Merlin remained unruffled. "Anything I did to warn you would have drawn his attention as well. This was the best choice I could make."

"So what do we do instead?"

"I've already said I can't tell you that."

Killian clenched a fist, fighting the overwhelming impulse to see if he too could get into the bloody magical chicken coop and strangle Merlin to death, but felt Emma's hand on his arm at that moment, pulling him back. Still, though, he couldn't help but wonder what on earth good it did to have the supposedly most powerful sorcerer in the world on their side, if all he would do was sit there and spout infuriating and unhelpful riddles at them. Indeed, he was almost thinking he understood exactly what had led Arthur Pendragon to abandon his previous affiliation with the man and take up with Nimue instead, as at least Nimue offered concrete solutions and real power. Evil solutions and terrible power, true, but that was the thing. Humans always went for the person who promised they could fix it, however wrongly and ignorantly, rather than the one who told them that they themselves had to do the work, no matter how noble their purpose. Indeed from that perspective, it was no wonder that Merlin had ended up in this cage. He had put too much stock in mankind's ability to give a damn, rather than just feeding them some ridiculous foofaraw and letting stupidity and fear do the rest.

That made Killian ashamed of his own transparent impatience and rage at dealing with the sorcerer, his own desperation for an easy answer, a quick fix, when he had learned over and over that there wasn't one. No replacement for struggling by yourself, for bearing the weight of every mistake, and as Emma kept hold of him, he belatedly got himself back under control. "Aye, but if Gold does get the scale, he said Emma's word to help him is binding. He could just order her to work the blasted thing out for him."

"So he could," Merlin said, "but remember, it all rests on choice. Even Gold can't force you to do it, Emma, if you don't."

"But he can still hurt the people I care about," Emma said flatly. She hadn't yet let go of his arm, Killian noticed. "We went through this. Even if I don't agree, he'll blackmail me until I do."

"In which case," Merlin remarked, "you may then choose to accept the price of defeating him. Osiris dies, you know. In the myth. It is the love of Isis that saves him, that leads the other gods to bring him back to serve as ruler of the underworld and god of the afterlife. The evil Set seeks to overthrow them both and the young heir, Horus, ultimately brings peace and safety to the land. An old story, indeed the oldest story. Sacrifice. Jealousy. Life. Death. Good. Evil. Hate. Love."

"That's riveting, mate," Killian said. "Truly. But still not helpful."

"Wait," Emma interrupted. "Does that mean that Osiris – that I – have to. . . to die?"

"Only if you choose to," Merlin answered, after a moment just long enough to make Killian certain he had considered a multitude of potential responses and selected this one as the most opaque. "And just as Osiris's was not, it's not an ordinary physical death. It's. . . different."

"So you've – what? Just kept her as a hog for slaughter this entire time?" Despite all of Killian's efforts to be patient with this maddening, cryptic, circular waffle, it kept getting shorter and shorter, and this might well be the last straw. "The entire reason she has this power is to die when she needs to, to clean up the mess you made? Bloody hell! No wonder you're such a Dumbledore fan!"

"Killian." Emma gripped his arm harder. "We don't know it's like that."

No. Perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps the world was in fact a kind and gentle place, and would not take from him what he most likely deserved to lose anyway, but he doubted it. He could feel himself straining on the very hair edge of control, that old monster whispering to be let out of its cage, and fought it down in sick, nauseous gulps; it was the last thing that would help them out right now, much as he wanted to pull Merlin's spleen out through his nose. Even worse, he could not openly announce that he would never let it happen, he would make the sacrifice for her, if it was her who had the ultimate power to finally overthrow Gold once and for all. _Just as I've always said I wanted._ Nobody would be safe until it happened, them or anyone. It had to be done. But if it came at this. . . at this. . .

"So," Regina said, her voice breaking like an ice-ax into the increasingly frantic blur of his thoughts. "We just. . . what? Let Gold get his hands on the scale and hope he doesn't find us in time to use it? I'm not sure I like that as a strategy. In fact, I don't in the least. I'm with Killian on this one. At this rate, we're better off not asking anything from you at all."

"Then you have to get me out," Merlin said. "The scale isn't the only way. And you won't even have to go anywhere further or find anything else to do it. But a broken heart was what put me here, and grief forms some of our strongest and darkest magic. Only the tear from a comparable pain can set me free."

Regina eyed Killian and Emma darkly. "I'll gladly stake him again, if it gets her to weep a tear or two."

"Over your dead body, sis." Killian smiled at her, very fangily.

"That won't work anyway," Merlin cut in. "It has to be genuine."

Killian looked at Emma. "Can I kill him? You'd cry, wouldn't you, love? Please?"

She looked up at him tenderly, which tore at his heart. "I don't think that would work either, you know. It seems a little counterproductive. There has to be some other way."

"I'm really bloody tired of hearing that," Killian muttered grimly. Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to Henry and Liam, and what might become of them out alone in the world. No, they were fine, they had to be. Safe enough, at least. If anything happened to them –

No, he wasn't going to think like that, he wasn't going to. Shaking himself, he tried to pull himself together. "Well," he said. "While we're thinking of how to cause one of us terrible grief in the service of the world's most useless life coach, we should at least rest or something beforehand. Even you, Regina. Running on three booster shots in a row can't be easy."

She eyed him suspiciously, as if unsure how to react to something that almost sounded supportive, but forbore to answer. The three of them had just climbed out of the cellar, standing in the hall and wondering how to proceed, when – to their communal alarm, such events not having a history of going well – there was a knock on the mansion door.

"Bloody hell," Killian said. "If it's the terrible threesome and they somehow have the scale already. . . run for it, love. I'll hold them off."

The knock came again.

"I don't think it's them." Regina sniffed, frowning. "Humans."

" _Humans?_ Selling bloody Girl Scout cookies, I imagine?"

"Hold on," Emma said, frowning more. "I think I do recognize that. Wait a. . ."

The three of them traipsed together down the corridor to the front foyer, where Killian put Emma behind him, Regina put herself in front of him, and thus defensively arrayed, she cracked the door an inch. "Yes?" she said, in manifestly forbidding tones.

"We're looking for our son," a man's voice said. "Henry Nolan. Is he here?"

"Wha – ?" Regina pulled the door open a few more inches to reveal a tall blonde fellow wearing a gun in a shoulder holster and a short woman with a black pixie cut, a quiver and longbow strapped on her back. "What is this, Alvin and the Chipmunks?"

"My name is David Nolan." The man crossed his arms, looking obnoxiously like a classic storybook pillar of valor as he did. "Where's Henry?"

"David?" Emma said blankly. _"Mary Margaret?"_

"Emma?" Prince bloody Charming's jaw dropped. "What's going on? Where's Henry?"

"I – what are you guys doing here?" From the look on her face, Killian could tell that she knew them, but not all that well, and the sight of them was nearly the last thing on earth she had expected. "How did you find us?"

"We talked to Jimmy on the BPD and had him track Henry's cell phone," David admitted. "This was the last place we could get a firm signal. Is he all right?"

"I. . ." Emma glanced at Regina and Killian, who were equally baffled. "This is David and Mary Margaret Nolan. They're Henry's adoptive parents. I didn't realize they were so. . ." She eyed the weapons. "Hardcore?"

"We've been training," David said. "Ever since. . . well, ever since we learned. . ."

"That I was a vampire?" Emma tried to keep her voice level, but Killian could hear the waver in it. "In case I turned up one day and tried to kill you and Jimmy and take Henry back?"

Mary Margaret flinched. "It wasn't like that," she said. "Just when we knew the world was a bit different than we thought, it couldn't hurt to be prepared. Henry's. . .?"

"He's gone," Emma said. "He's taking. . . someone important into hiding. We've got a lot on our plates, really, so I'm not sure what you want to do, but. . ."

"We need allies, love," Killian said in an undertone. "The three of us facing the might of all this evil and darkness alone. . .? We could use at least a few extra hands."

"Allies?" Regina repeated. "We need _warriors!_ Not middle-aged PTA members, no matter how many weekend courses they've been taking at the rec center or the gun range! Do you really think we'll defeat Gold or Arthur or anyone with the local bake sale champion and the best volunteer at the animal shelter? We don't have time to babysit humans!"

"I know we don't look like Rambo," David said. "But we can handle ourselves."

"I doubt that."

"Look," Mary Margaret broke in. "Our son is in danger. If nothing else, that's pretty clear. And what kind of parents would we be if we didn't do everything in our power to rescue him? We don't know all the details, and you don't need to tell us. You don't have to agree to work with us, but even if so, we're not going home to sit and do nothing. We'll keep fighting. So we'll do it where you can keep an eye on us, or where you can't. It's up to you."

There was a long pause. Then Regina sighed deeply. "Fine," she said. "I'm sure your rainbow kisses and unicorn stickers will definitely turn the tide. Come in. Why not."

David and Mary Margaret stepped inside, though as humans they didn't require the same invitation as vampires, and it fell to Emma to make rather awkward introductions. Killian sized David up from head to toe, as David was doing the same to him; it wasn't clear that he approved of leather, eyeliner, or the fellow wearing any combination thereof, to which Killian wasn't overly impressed by the blonde, square-jawed Champion of Truth and Righteousness aura either. He was just wondering if they were going to have to have some kind of time-honored contest to determine the superior male in the group when Regina tapped his arm. "Killian. I need to talk to you."

"If you're just going to barb me more in regards to Emma, you can forget about – "

" _No._ It's important."

He hesitated, then detached from the others and followed her down the hall to one of the mansion's lavish drawing rooms. He shut the door, turned around, and said, "What?"

She was clearly uncomfortable, and couldn't quite look him in the eye. Finally she said, "Do you remember the night we met? The first time I came to London?"

Killian resisted the urge to rub at his sternum. "You stabbed me with a corset busk."

"You deserved it," she snapped. "Well, I've just been thinking, now that I know all this, and. . . some things that Gold said to me later, after I made it to his house, are starting to make sense. Killian, I. . . I was the one who told him about the Hook and Compass."

For a moment, this didn't register. Then it did, and Killian felt as if the floor was falling out from under his feet. "It was you? _You_ were the one who let him know where it was? Christ! The place burned for three days! It was my home, Regina. My bloody _home!_ The closest thing I had to one! You let him destroy it?"

"I'm sorry," she said tightly. "I was naïve. I wanted to please him. And there's more. I also told him about all the werewolves you'd killed. And he said he'd have to send along to collect them, because one day he would have to make sure someone learned about it. I didn't know this at the time, of course, but he was talking about your brother."

"Bloody hell." Killian had to sit down at that, dropping into the nearest striped moiré armchair, hands closing on the arms until the aged wood creaked. He wanted very much to kill her, and struggled with the urge until he felt as if he was going to be sick. "I was wondering who stole all those. I thought it was just a looter in the chaos of the raid. So now he still has them to wave in Liam's face, now that we've been reunited, and prove to him just what a monster I was?"

Regina paused. Then she nodded.

Killian's grip contracted all at once, snapping the antique and valuable armchair like matchwood, as he stood up in a whirl. "I killed all those werewolves because they – because of what they did to him! It doesn't excuse it, I was a mad monster with a broken heart, nobody dragged me to their den and forced me to slaughter them, but – Regina, why, _why?_ Why are you telling me this? Just to bloody torment me all over again?"

"No." She twisted her hands together. "I was thinking about what Merlin said. About how the tear from a broken heart could get him out. And if you don't tell Liam, you can bet that Gold will, and make it as terrible as possible. If he's been living here a while, he most likely has those skins hidden somewhere. I could probably find them. If you did – "

"Are you." Killian had to stop, opening and closing his fists, not able to look at her for fear he'd snap. "Are you asking me to break my brother's heart by telling him about all the werewolves I futilely murdered trying to avenge him, when he himself was one all along, enslaved by our worst enemy? To reveal to him just how utterly I abandoned everything he raised me to be? When we already sent him and Henry away to spare them more pain and suffering? Just to free a man who's given no actual help to us at all and might well be playing his own long con?" It was worse than the pain of the stake, stabbing and stabbing, twisting in his belly, in his heart. _"Are you bloody insane?"_

Regina flinched at the force of his roar. "Killian, I – "

"Aye," he breathed. "Just like you. Willing to destroy everyone except yourself, as usual, if it gets you what you want. You want to be a hero, but you sure as bloody hell don't want to actually sacrifice anything for it! Though in this case I understand. Nobody could break their heart over you, and you couldn't over them, because nobody loves you. No wonder you went running to Gold after Mummy murdered your little soldier boy! You knew you'd lost your chance for good!"

Regina's face went dead white. He had wanted to hurt her, and he could see at once that he had succeeded spectacularly, to the point he almost wanted to take the words back. But that would mean apologizing, that would mean crumbling, and he was already good and bloody crumbled enough. He whirled around and put his fist through the stained glass window, scattering colored shards everywhere, and then smashed it again for good measure – this was Gold's bloody house, he should finish what the terrible trio had started and burn it to the ground. Take Emma and run away, go find Henry and Liam and never look back. Even if it was the coward's way out, the hypocrite's, Killian Jones had never wanted more in his three hundred years of life to stop being brave. To give in. To break. _Make it stop. Make it stop._

The silence hung between them, huge and fraught, horrible. He couldn't see a way out of this. If he had to break Liam's heart and lose Emma, who had to sacrifice herself to destroy Gold anyway (or something that sounded very much like that), then there was no point in him continuing to live at all. Perhaps other men became heroes because they were willing to suffer every extreme of personal loss if it meant Good won in the end. As for him, Killian knew far too bitterly what it had turned him into. _I can't do this. I'm not strong enough._

Fragmented, frantic thoughts whirled in his head. He was more than half tempted to go downstairs and kill Merlin right now, spare everyone the trouble of his endless circumvention and mysterious foretelling that barely seemed worth the air he used up, but Emma still needed him for power, to feed on. But would that be an issue if Merlin was dead, if they were freed from this intricate trap he had built for all of them? Killian didn't know, and indeed the only thing holding him back was the fear that it would seal Gold's victory, with no one left who was remotely capable of opposing him. The last thing he needed to do was to fall back into his old mindless, destructive habits, shooting his own foot if he thought it would hurt Gold's more, when in fact it rarely did. Without another word to Regina, he whirled on his heel and stormed out.

He was blundering along the corridor, barely looking where he was going and doubtless with a black cloud ensconced above his head, when he collided with something – or rather, someone, who as they grabbed at him proved to be Emma. She tilted her head back to study his face with clear concern, fingers closing on his lapels. "Killian, what's wrong? You look terrible."

"Nothing," he muttered. "Sorry for the shouting. Suppose we should come up with our latest brilliant plan now, eh? At least until this one goes catastrophically down the drain."

"What did Regina say?" She didn't let go. "What is it?"

"She – reminded me of a particularly gruesome element of my past that's likely about to come back to haunt me, and indeed wanted me to do it myself to further the cause of Merlin's freedom." Killian wanted to shout, but his voice came out as a wretched, exhausted sigh. "And I can't, love. I'm going to lose everything again one way or another, that's clear enough, and it's worse because I almost thought I was going to get a second chance, a fresh start. There's nothing worse than false hope. I just. . . I don't know. I can't do this. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you can," Emma said fiercely. Her green eyes glittered like a lioness, her hands bunching tighter on his jacket. "We're going to get through this, all right? Don't run away and do something stupid, or I'll kill you myself. But this isn't over."

He smiled tiredly down at her. "When did you become the optimist of the outfit, darling?"

"I don't know." Her chin quivered. "Maybe it's just because I've been spending so much time with Henry. He always thinks things are going to work out. God knows he didn't get that from me."

Killian caught the faint flicker of her eyes in the direction of the front hall. "Are you going to be all right with having his adoptive parents here, love? The ones who gave him everything you couldn't?"

Emma blinked, clearly stunned that he had picked up on that, and didn't answer for a moment. Then she said, "They're here to help us. That's all that matters."

Recognizing a wall when he saw one, a refusal to expand on something that already hurt enough, Killian decided not to press at that particular moment; God knew he didn't want her digging any further into his own bleeding wounds. Instead he tipped his face down as she stretched on her tiptoes, and cupped the back of her head, silky strands of blonde hair tumbling through his fingers, as he gathered her into a quick kiss – or at least it was supposed to be quick. Instead it turned deep and then deeper, both of them breathing the other, those sweet, stolen moments where they could flee from the pain and danger of the world into the refuge of each other's arms. They parted at last, but didn't quite let go, as her fingers remained closed on his jacket and his hand stayed in her hair, as he felt his old, scabby, bruised, aching heart spin and spin, fragile as blown glass, about to fall and shatter. It didn't matter what. It didn't matter how long. It didn't matter when, or where. He knew already he could not lose her, and live. Could not lose her and stand up. Could not lose her, and remember his own name.

 _God,_ he thought. _I'll give anything. Anything I have to._

_Anything but her._

_Anything but Liam._

_Anything._

_Anything._

_Please._


	19. Chapter 19

For the longest moment, as he stared at the vampire on the threshold, the student he'd been worried enough about to ask Emma to investigate in the first place, who had invited Nimue into Harvard, who had set the snowball rolling on the avalanche of insanity currently crashing down on their heads, Henry was faced with two strange, if perfectly logical, competing impulses. The first was to do what the professor would do, if a student turned up at his office in a bad way: invite her in, sit down, have a talk, review the problem, make recommendations for support groups or on-campus help services, reassure them that if they did this and this, they could still pass the class. And indeed, the instinct was so strong that he opened his mouth to do it, as if Lily was just going to sit on the ratty old bed and listen to him logically explain the situation, before he caught himself. She wasn't a troubled sophomore in need of a few counseling sessions to help get her life straightened out. She had been turned, even if not by her volition, into a monster working for some far more dangerous ones, and while that didn't mean he was about to stake her in cold blood and watch her die, it also didn't mean he was under any professional obligation to make it easier for her to do whatever awful thing she had clearly come to do. They stared at each other, and stared at each other, until he said at last, "Miss Page. This is quite a surprise."

"Yeah, I'll bet it is." For all that Lily was doing her best to sound tough, she wasn't quite pulling it off. "It wasn't very smart of you to interfere. To try to ruin my life, when I'd finally found someone who wanted to help me. And now I'm going to make sure you don't get the chance again."

"Oh?" Henry was fairly sure she couldn't get inside the room unless he asked her, but that was not much to hang his hat on. Remembering what a stew of emotions he had been at age nineteen, struggling with Emma's continued silence, distance, and lack of an explanation for either, and his strong belief that the world was personally out to get him and he would never be happy or successful at anything, he tried to keep his voice gentle. Heaven knew he might have jumped at someone like Nimue, promising to wave a magic wand to ease the terrible rite of passage into becoming a grownup. "Lily, I wanted to help you."

"You didn't do a very good job at it." Her chin quivered, and she crossed her arms angrily. "You and your mother got me _killed!_ You don't think that's a problem?"

"Lily," Henry said. "Zelena and Nimue killed you. And honestly, I imagine they don't give a single damn if you die right now doing their dirty work. I know you think that if you can just keep doing what they want, they'll like you and they'll keep you around. But it's not worth it, all right? It's not worth it. My mother, my aunt Regina, my family – they'll help you. They can teach you how to be a vampire who has a fulfilling life and follows the law, who has all kinds of abilities and opportunities. There's an entire community waiting to accept you. You don't have to, if you'll permit me to mix my supernatural metaphors, lone-wolf this."

"How would you know that?" she asked aggressively. Still, though, at least she was listening, and hadn't leaped for his throat yet, so that was a plus. "You're a human!"

"Yes," Henry said patiently. "I am. So were you, until a few weeks ago. But I've been through this, all right? I understand where you are. My mom was turned when I was ten, and I didn't know what happened or why for the next fifteen years. I thought she just decided overnight that she was done with me and didn't want to be my mother anymore. I was put in the foster care system and thankfully, ended up with a great family, but I never got over the hole it left in me. When I finally found out about the vampire thing, it completely rocked my world. I thought she was shitting me, or making fun of leaving me, or she'd had a mental breakdown, or it was anything other than what it was. No one _wants_ to hear that. No one _wants_ to go through this. But I did, and I made it, and I get it now. I do. Whatever Zelena and Nimue are telling you, it's not the only option. I'm speaking from experience, not pie-in-the-sky clap your hands and it'll all be fine naïve optimism. Killing me isn't going to solve anything. It won't fill that hole."

Lily looked at him silently, some of the blackness receding from her eyes. She clearly wanted to believe him, if nothing else, and for a few moments she had nothing to say. She paced back and forth like a stalking panther, as if trying to work herself back up into a homicidal mindset, and he held his breath, trying to locate something to use as a weapon in case she decided to take her chances. But the options were slim, and besides, he wasn't a soldier. That had never been his use on this mission, and that was not about to change.

At last she stopped, glanced back at him, and opened her mouth awkwardly. But that was when something sprang out of the night like grim death, she whirled around, there was a whoosh and a crash and a thump, and then the splinter of breaking wood as the railing broke and the blur of movement plunged out into thin air. When Henry bolted out of the room and looked at the ground below, he saw Lily flat on her back beneath a huge, snarling wolf, the ground cratered from the force of impact and a car alarm caviling madly in the parking lot. Somebody was going to open their door, see this, freak out, and call animal control and/or the police, even if it would take them a while to get all the way out here, and Henry ran almost as fast as a vampire himself down the steps, panicking. "No! No! Liam, get off her! I had it under control! Get off!"

The wolf lifted its muzzle, snarled again, and slowly removed its paw from Lily's throat, but didn't step away entirely. For her part, Lily was looking at him in fury. "That's what you meant by _helping?_ Siccing your dog on me?"

"He's not my dog, he's my – " Henry groped for the nearest word that made any sense to describe their relationship, and settled on the one he'd used before. "He's my uncle. He's a werewolf, he's been through some pretty awful stuff, he's just trying to protect me." He waved at Liam furiously, trying to get him to change back into a human before someone arrived to investigate the racket. The second-floor railing was broken, it was going to be enough of a pain to explain that away, and he didn't want to be forced afield yet again in search of a place to sleep, especially as he wasn't sure he could afford it. "He doesn't mean anything by it."

Liam growled in an extremely menacing fashion, as if to say that he very much did, but after a moment, he sat back on his haunches and reverted into a man, which Lily regarded with trepidation; this was likely to be her first encounter with a werewolf, and a considerably memorable one at that. "How do you have a werewolf uncle, if your mother's a vampire?"

"My family is complicated," Henry said with a sigh. "Trust me on that. But it does mean that between the lot of us, we can probably figure something out. So how about we pick up and – oh, hey, hi, we're fine out here, we're, um, we just had a little misunderstanding. Nobody's hurt, it's fine. We're good."

Donna eyed him suspiciously, before glancing up at the broken railing and the clear imprint of a body in the ground where Lily had hit. This was clearly confirming all of her misgivings on first sight of Liam's battered state, but as she opened her mouth, Liam himself stood up, wiping his hands on his already-filthy jeans. "You have our sincerest apologies for the commotion, mistress. If compensation needs to be arranged, I'll see to it."

To Henry's shock, something about this, whether it was Liam's innate air of command – or more likely, the English accent – actually worked. Donna was clearly the sort of person who watched a lot of television shows where handsome, scruffy British men ran around causing mayhem in order to save the day, and was swiftly charmed into insisting that it wasn't a bother, the old place had needed work done for years anyway (well, she wasn't wrong) and if he wanted to come to the office, they could work something out. Liam, however, was clearly unwilling to leave Henry alone with Lily, especially outside where he didn't have the invitation protocol to protect him, and so it was transacted on the spot. When Donna had finally been persuaded to retire with further assurances that the police definitely did not need to be involved, and the office door had closed, Henry looked back at the vampire. "Who sent you?"

Lily fidgeted and looked away.

"Now." That was Liam again, with the captain's voice, and it made her flinch. He bared his teeth, as if to say there was plenty more where the last had come from if she failed to cooperate, and to judge from the blood matted in the light brown fur of his chest, he had definitely had a successful hunt. "Who was it and how did you find us?"

Lily hesitated. "They'll. . . they'll probably do something bad if I tell you."

"We won't let that happen," Henry said, with far more authority than he felt. "If you cooperate, we'll make sure you're protected. It's kind of what I'm already doing. So was it Zelena and Nimue?"

"Zelena," Lily said after a moment. "She called and said she was leaving for London, and she wanted me to go down to a certain address in New York and keep an eye on things. But I hadn't gotten all the way there when I picked up your scent instead, going in the opposite direction, so I switched. I don't know what she wanted me to do, other than make sure you didn't get away. I'm only doing what I was told." She shrugged defensively. "I was just angry. When I showed up at the door. I probably wasn't actually going to kill you."

"Probably wasn't?" Henry repeated dryly. "Well, I suppose that's better than 'definitely was,' but still. You're a newborn vampire, I doubt you're able to handle a booster shot yet, so how have you been dealing with the daylight hours?"

Lily hesitated. "Zelena. . . gave me Nimue's blood. She said it would accommodate me faster."

"Ah." Henry could imagine that being fed right away on Old One blood, especially from the mother of vampires and originator of the species, would definitely have an accelerated effect on a fledgling's abilities. He also imagined that the earlier it started, the quicker Lily would be completely hooked, unable to rely on blood replacements for nutrition and bound to Zelena by addiction and starvation. Turned into yet another of her mindless minions, quickly forgetting any sense of her humanity at all. He fought back a pang of rage; there was nothing he could do about it now. Just hope that he could actually keep at least one person out of her hands. Lily hadn't been a particularly exemplary student, or a beacon of good behavior around campus even before she got mixed up with Nimue, but people didn't have to "deserve" being saved from a predator and a murderer. Sanctimoniously ticking off boxes on her moral character in order to make sure they only rescued squeaky-clean Girl Scouts. . . Henry wasn't sure where that led or what that made him, exactly, but he knew if nothing else that he didn't want to find out.

"Okay," he said after a moment, racking his brains to think if there was anything else they needed to ask her. It seemed fairly obvious that she'd just been put on their tail as watchdog and lookout so Zelena didn't get caught off guard by some unfortunate development while she was away in London, but there had been enough twists and turns that he wasn't completely sure. Besides, if she had scented them – and given the incident with the werewolves in Worcester already – that meant more supernaturals could have done the same. For what purpose, who knew, but if Liam had been working as Gold's hired muscle for this long, he had probably made a lot of enemies. And seeing as Henry's strategy to protect him still essentially consisted of hiding out in the woods and hoping nobody noticed, that could be a problem.

To Lily, he said, "All right. Thank you. As long as you don't try to hurt us again, nobody needs to know about this. I suggest you head to. . . to. . ." He struggled, trying to think of anywhere that might be remotely safe right now, and finally had to conclude that it was nowhere in the vicinity. "New Orleans. They have a very well-established supernatural community there, you can probably hide out until the heat dies down. Going back to Boston probably isn't smart."

"New _Orleans?"_ Lily looked dubious. "That's a long way."

"Yes," Henry said shortly. "We all have to make sacrifices."

"If New Orleans is so safe, how come you aren't going there?"

"Maybe because it's a vampire hotbed, and I have a werewolf who plenty of them would be happy to kill on sight." Henry straightened up. "For you, though, it'll be more than suitable."

Lily still looked as if she wanted to argue, but Liam growled, and since she was (with good reason) clearly terrified of him, she shut her mouth with a snap, got up, and started toward her car. Then she glanced back and said awkwardly, "I – thanks. For trying to help. Really trying. I'm not. . . I'm just not used to that."

"Well," Henry said. "You're welcome. Don't try to kill us again, and we'll call it even."

"Okay. Deal." She looked incredibly vulnerable in the whipping night wind, just a nineteen-year-old girl who had wanted to fit in, to belong, to not lose the attention of the first person who had ever made her feel like she mattered, and Henry felt a faint pang, wondering if it had been like this for Emma, if it was that ever-present fear of loss which had driven her first to his dad and then to Walsh, which was thrown back in her face in the worst of ways until she finally decided that she was better off alone. "I'll. . . see you around."

With that, Lily vanished into the night, the car door opened and shut, and a few moments later, her black Mustang roared to life, pulling out with a spray of gravel. Henry stood watching it with narrowed eyes until the taillights had long vanished and the night was quiet again, not entirely certain that they had escaped as cleanly as it seemed. So far as it went, he _thought_ that Lily herself was telling the truth, but it was already established that she was nothing but a pawn for far more powerful forces, and even if she had been talked down, it might well result in Zelena finding out and sending someone who could handle the job. He himself wanted to jump into the car and keep driving, but he had already paid far too much for the room, and he was still seeing double with exhaustion. He had to sleep.

"Come on," Liam said gruffly. "I'll keep watch. You rest."

"Thanks." They climbed up the stairs to their room and stepped inside, shutting and bolting the door, and Henry went into the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He still saw the dweeby English professor, but there was something else as well, something finer and sharper and harder, not just the nerd and the liability and the guy who would probably die first in a horror movie. Like he was changing. Metamorphosing, even, though hopefully without the giant insect part. As if wherever this journey was leading him, it was long since too late to turn back.

He washed, shaved, and dug a clean T-shirt and pair of boxer shorts out of his bag. Went out into the darkened room, saw Liam sitting vigilantly by the window, and crawled into bed. Wanted to say something, to check that it was all right, that it would work, that this wasn't some kind of horrible mistake, but he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Once she had sent Killian onto the kitchen with promises that she'd follow in just a minute and they could get going on that brilliant plan to save the world, Emma ducked into a sitting room, shut the door, and leaned against it, struggling to regain her composure. To say the least, she had not expected to see David and Mary Margaret, didn't know how to deal with the revelation that they had evidently trained as vampire fighters in case they needed to kill her one day in order to protect Henry (her brain tried to insist that that wasn't it, but why else would they?) and had never seriously planned to take him up on the offer to get to know his adoptive parents better. They had done their job and she was sure he loved them very much and was extremely grateful for everything they had given him, but she had never seen that equating to some kind of hand-holding, Kumbaya-singing, "we're all one big family" touchy-feely reunion or catharsis. She saw Henry semi-regularly and they had made strides in improving their relationship; that was all she really needed (or felt up to attempting). But now they were here, now she couldn't get away from it anymore, and even considering everything else they were up against, somehow this seemed the most terrifying of all. If they were in close proximity with her for any length of time, they'd realize what a mistake they had made letting Henry have any contact with her at all. Realize that they couldn't trust her. Reject her. Close the door, walk away for good, and let that be that.

Emma gulped again, scrubbing her hands over her face, and tensed as she heard a step at the door. She really wasn't in the mood for company right now, even if she had to go back and deal with this much sooner than she cared for, but as she looked up, she saw it was Regina. She didn't look much happier, face drawn and hollow, and on seeing Emma, she turned to leave, having clearly thought the room empty and seeking it out for similar reasons. Then instead she paused and said, "Did he say something to you too?"

"Killian?" Emma was startled. "No. It's not him I'm upset about. It's. . . them. Henry's parents."

Regina's mouth tightened. It was plain that both of them were warring with their usual impulse to keep themselves close to the vest, the fact that neither of them considered the other a close confidante, against their own silent suffering, their need to say something before it exploded. Then after a moment, completely unexpectedly, Regina said, "I always wanted to have children. As a human, and then after that wasn't possible, as a vampire. But I never did."

"Oh?" Emma didn't know where this was going, but talking about something, anything, felt better than drowning in her own head. Prove that she could help someone else, be supportive, look functional. "Why. . . why not? If you don't mind me asking?"

Regina let out a long sigh. "Because of you. Not that I knew it at the time. But Gold told me that one day I was going to make the _universus_ for him, when I was old enough. That if I did, he wouldn't turn Zelena into a vampire, since I begged him not to. That he wanted it to be me."

"Gold did that?" Nothing seemed too egregious or out of reach for him, but Emma was still disconcerted, not least for what it demonstrated about how long he might have been scheming about her and her life – before she was even born in the first place, by the sound of things. "But obviously he. . . he did turn Zelena, and Zelena turned me."

"Yes," Regina said tightly. "He turned her five years later, just as he promised he wouldn't. That was what made me stop trusting him. He had always intended to turn Zelena, lied to me to make me believe him, and spent his time after that encouraging our rivalry, doubtless thinking that the stronger one would kill the other and he'd know which of us was worthy. Not that he needed to. Not much. We managed that quite well on our own." She stared at the wall, clearly regretting her decision to open up, but unable to seal the scab after the wound had begun to bleed. "Then in 1916, Killian finally killed him – or so we all thought. I thought I was free. That when I was old enough, I could make some blood children and have my own family after all. But I couldn't get rid of the fear that if I did, it would be the _universus,_ and that would bring him back, and he'd take over our lives again. So I didn't. I picked myself up from nothing, I've done whatever I could. Becoming queen of Boston, pursuing the witan seat, all this. . ." She waved an angry hand. "Then Zelena makes you, and it turns out you're the special one. That she did what Gold wanted me to do, that he was never dead, that I've been lying to myself this entire time, and it all happened exactly the way he wanted. Killian said nobody loves me, and I'm starting to think he was right. Even the chance was taken from me long ago."

Emma didn't know what to say. She too could have wished for not quite so much brutal honesty, even if she could sense Regina's pain and anger and regret boiling off her, heavy in the air. "So you never turned any fledglings of your own because you were afraid they would be me," she said. "The one who brought Gold back and gave him power. But then Zelena did anyway, and made it pointless."

"Yes." Regina hunched her shoulders. "Glad you caught on."

"I. . ." Emma still struggled for the words. It wasn't her fault; she had never asked to be made, and certainly never to be the vampire Chosen One. She had to fight the urge to apologize, and bit her lip instead. This did explain Regina's recent behavior toward Henry, that deep-rooted maternal protectiveness coming out in search of someone to give it to, however it could, while thinking it had long since missed its chance. It made her own heart hurt, and fed her anger at Gold for what he had done to all of them for so long, pulling their strings to make them dance to his black heart's content. "I'm sorry Killian said that to you. I'm sure he didn't mean it."

"He meant it." Regina kept up her bleak contemplation of the far wall. "Especially after what I told him. That Gold most likely has all the pelts of the werewolves he killed a long time ago, and he should tell Liam about it before Gold does. And so, help us get Merlin out."

"The pelts of the werewolves he – ?" Considering what she had already guessed about how dark Killian had been in the past, and how much old hatred he had to get over to like Will Scarlet at all, Emma couldn't say she was surprised. Still, though, that was brutal even for Gold, and at that, she understood. "You asked him to break Liam's heart with it. Didn't you?"

"Do you have any better ideas about how to free Merlin?" Regina snapped. "Assuming he's any use to us at all? We already established that staking my idiot brother again wouldn't work."

"He's not an idiot. And I know there are a lot of unresolved issues between you two, but you're on the same side in this. If you could just put your energy into something besides snarking at each other, you'd make a pretty formidable team."

"Aren't you just the little supernatural family therapist?" But Regina made the comment without much heat, seemingly by reflex, and she sighed. "Fine. But if I do that, then you work on yours with the humans. It seems about the only use that will come out of them showing up like this."

Emma opened her mouth, about to protest, before she realized that she didn't have much of a leg to stand on. But as they started out of the room and toward the kitchen, she said, "Gold. You're conflicted about him too, aren't you? You want him neutralized and out of the way and not able to hurt anyone anymore, but your mind isn't entirely made up about killing him."

Regina tensed. The silence tipped decidedly toward the uncomfortable before she said coolly, "My past with him is complicated, Miss Swan. Let's leave it at that, shall we? And I can assure you, it will not interfere in us doing what has to be done. He made me into a monster, but I won't let him do the same to you."

"If you say so." Emma didn't know much, but she could tell that Regina had become a vampire by her own choice, embracing Gold and his promises of fame and opportunity and success, and thus no matter how corroded and fractured that foundation now was, there remained that very small part of her that struggled with rejecting him entirely. That fear that if she did, she would never get another chance, would cut herself off forever from any hope of happiness, and that _was_ one feeling that Emma knew intimately well. "Come on, let's go."

Both of them, relieved to get away from the heart-to-hearts, picked up the pace, almost burning up the hall carpet, until they stepped into the mansion's industrial-size kitchen. Mary Margaret had somehow managed to locate tea in its vast expanse of cupboards, brewing herself and David a cup, while Killian looked as if he could have done with several stiff drinks and then some. As Regina and Emma slid into chairs along the gleaming mahogany table, thus to commence their impromptu council of war, he didn't glance up until she touched his arm. "Killian?"

"Aye, love?" He tried to smile. "Do you need something?"

Of course he would think of that first. "No." She managed to smile back. "Just wanted to see. . . see how you were."

"Alive," Killian said. "I suppose we'll start with that. And I've brought them up to speed – " he indicated David and Mary Margaret – "so we don't need to go over the sordid details again. What's the plan?"

Regina appeared set to make a crack about how perhaps he could have exerted himself a bit more to come up with one, remembered that they were supposed to be working on their relationship, and restrained. Instead she said, "We have two priorities. One, find out what Emma needs to do in order to make the Osiris scale work, what exactly it does, and what it will cost. Assuming, as we probably can, that Gold finds it in London and comes back here with the intention of using it. Two, free Merlin, and hope he's a little more use than moss on a stump. Which entails breaking someone's heart, so. . ." She smiled grimly. "Don't everyone volunteer at once."

Mary Margaret and David exchanged a look. Then David said, "And the story is that Henry was sent off into the middle of nowhere with an unbalanced werewolf, yes?"

"Yes." Killian glared at him. "I wasn't lying to you, mate. And that's my brother you're speaking of, so you'll keep a more civil tongue in your head when you do."

There was a pause as the women waited to see if there would be some sort of tedious stag fight to settle the threat of testosterone poisoning, ascertained that the answer was (at least for the time being) no, and got on with the program. "Henry asked for it," Regina said. "Argued for it, in fact. Nobody twisted his arm, and he knew the risks involved. If your only concern is helping him, you're welcome to try to track him down, but there's still plenty of work here. The terrible trio could show up again at any moment. And I don't think it would be very useful to send Henry out of danger, only to get his parents killed behind his back because they decided to be heroes. It's not too late for you to go back to Massachusetts and, I don't know, put his face on a milk carton."

"We already said we're not going to do that." Mary Margaret spoke gently, but firmly. "What do you need us to help with?"

Regina hesitated, was forced to accept that she wasn't getting rid of them, and sighed. "To be honest, I haven't slept in half a week and if I have to take one more booster shot right now, God knows what it'll do to me. I could use about a day and a night off, so if you want to give these two a hand, that would be acceptable. In fact." She pushed her chair back and stood up. "I think I'll leave you to it. Wake me up if we're in imminent danger of death, otherwise I don't care."

There was an awkward silence as she strode out of the kitchen, leaving David, Mary Margaret, Emma, and Killian eyeing each other like contestants on a reality show trying to decide who made the easiest pickings. Finally, Mary Margaret took the bull by the horns. "So, Emma, it's. . . it's good to see that you're in a new relationship. I know it's been quite a long time."

"What? I'm not – " Emma glanced down, saw that she and Killian were holding hands under the table and she hadn't even noticed, and supposed it would be a bit rich of her to deny it. "We, uh, it's not actually anything formal. I don't know that I'd use that word. We've just mostly been, you know. Thrown together in this whole mess."

"If you say so," Mary Margaret agreed diplomatically. "So, this Osiris scale. What does it do?"

"You're taking this whole revelation of supernatural conspiracy for world domination thing pretty well," Emma said warily. "How much do you know, exactly?"

"Not much," Mary Margaret confessed, "but more than Henry thinks we do. And powerful and dangerous people are always trying to cause hurt and evil in one way or another, so it's not surprising that it's a problem here as well, just with higher stakes. And our family is part of this, so we have to face up to it. Other families have different problems, ours just happen to come with fangs. The scale, does it judge if people – or immortals – are worthy, and then what. . .?"

"I'm not sure," Emma said. "Merlin wasn't very clear. He just says I'm the only one who can use it for its intended purpose, and there will be some kind of terrible price to do so." Her heart clenched. Between that and the need to break someone's heart to get him out of the cage, Merlin certainly seemed to be demanding a steep emotional toll to buy even a faint hint of success. "I think the idea is that once I master it, I can use it to either confirm someone's eternal life to them, or take it away. So if I judged Gold with it, it would remove his immortality and he would die, or at least make him able to be killed. I don't know what its criteria to be a good person are, but it seems like he shouldn't meet them."

Killian grimaced again, as if thinking that he shouldn't either, and Emma squeezed his hand. "I don't know why I'm supposed to be the one doing the judging, since it's not like I've lived a perfect life either, but maybe it wants somebody with both light and dark in them. Merlin didn't seem to think Gold could do anything significant with it even if he did get hold of it, but he and the terrible trio could make it messy battling over it."

"And that was in. . . London?" David asked. "Do you want us to go? It's easier for us to travel because we don't have to deal with daylight restrictions, and we can probably afford it more easily than you. We did bring our passports, just in case. We were thinking we might have to go to Canada, but this is just as well."

"What? No. I can't possibly send you guys, a couple of humans on your first day on the job, to battle four of the most powerful, and evil, vampires alive. It would be a slaughter."

"Well, no. I don't suggest we take them on ourselves. But we could try to protect the citizens. Find out what they're doing there and send reports. That way you don't have to be completely in the dark, so to speak, about how to prepare. Worst comes to worst, we get to see Europe a bit before we die." David shrugged, even as that macabre quip was going over like a lead balloon. "I think you could stand to have some eyes on them."

Emma and Killian exchanged a glance. It was reasonably apparent that this was indeed something they could use, especially if Arthur decided to use the layover back home as a convenient interlude to prepare for all-out war. Go from town to town toting the "Restore the Rightful King of Camelot" collection tin; maybe they'd think he was just one of the weirder breed of British political parties, and he certainly wouldn't be the first person to claim he was in fact King Arthur returned (just the first to be right, and that was by no means a good thing). But it would be a delicate and dangerous spy mission with grim consequences for failure, and Emma knew that if she was once more responsible for Henry losing his parents, she would never be able to forgive herself. "Are you _sure_ you're up for this?"

David and Mary Margaret likewise looked at each other, then took hands. "Yes."

"Very well." Emma blew out a breath. "Get to London as quick as you can. Killian has a werewolf friend there, Will Scarlet – he's been helping us out, and we'd probably both feel better if you had at least some supernatural protection. As for a place to stay, I don't know, but – "

"You can use my house," Killian said. "It's in Russell Square, most conveniently located for keeping an eye on the British Museum. You'd want for nothing. I can fetch you the keys."

Caught off guard, David blinked. "That's – very generous of you, Mr. Jones. Are you positive you'd want a pair of strangers there?"

"Aye." Killian smiled, without much humor. "Don't go into the dungeon, though. All the tormented skeletons might alarm you."

David looked at him squiggle-eyed, unsure if he was joking, and shot a glance at Emma clearly asking whether she was _certain_ she considered this man an appropriate potential stepfather for their shared son. It alarmed her how easily she read that, not least because it implied a level of seriousness to her involvement with Killian (no matter what else, they _had_ slept together, she had to acknowledge it was at least that) which unsettled her. Henry did like him, and after all was currently off with his brother, so maybe there _was_ a sort of twisted family solidarity starting to take shape, however strange. But she was already terrified that he was going to somehow end up being the price she had to pay to defeat Gold and take away his immortality, and letting him any closer in would only make it worse. If it was what she had to do. . . if there was no other way. . .

David and Mary Margaret got onto their phones to book plane tickets, and Emma fought down her overwhelming urge to call Henry. Gold _had_ gone to London (or at least that was certainly what he wanted them to think, and she was getting exhausted with the need to second-or-third guess everything he did); surely they had to be somewhat safe? But all it took was one slip-up to reveal their location, and since that was the paper tiger they were protecting him with, she still couldn't risk it. Once they got somewhere, he'd let her know. That would be it. Certainly.

When the Nolans had secured seats on an evening departure from JFK, they prepared their things, looked at the clock, and decided that with traffic and security and everything else to account for, they might as well leave for the airport now. As they were standing on the stoop, Mary Margaret said, "When you talk to Henry, whatever you tell him. . . don't worry him, all right? Make sure he knows we volunteered to do this. And also that. . ." She momentarily seemed to be having trouble speaking. "We're proud of him. We're so very proud of him."

"I am too." Emma's own voice was barely above a whisper, and she forced herself to meet the older woman's eyes. "Th – thank you for being his mother."

"No, Emma." Mary Margaret's gaze was soft as she reached out and took Emma's hand in her own, squeezing lightly. "Thank _you."_

Emma opened and shut her mouth, feeling as if she had been hit by lightning, and yet not in the usual sense, that painful, shattering way where she was nothing more than dust and ashes. She discreetly brushed a hand across her eyes, then said a bit too heartily, "Well, I guess you should get going, shouldn't you? Don't want to be caught in another construction project."

"We'll be in touch." David opened the car door for his wife. "As soon as we get to London and as soon as we know what they're doing. Don't get into too much trouble on the home front."

"We'll do our best," Emma promised, watching him get behind the wheel. "Same for you."

David waved, then shut the door, started the engine, and reversed out. She watched until they were out of sight down the road, leaving just her and Killian, and they stood there for a long moment in silence. Then all at once, she didn't care about what was right or what she'd have to lose later, or anything besides the fact that she couldn't go another moment without touching him, and she turned, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him wordlessly to her.

He was surprised, but didn't resist, mouth finding hers as they ended up in the next instant against the wall without knowing how they had gotten there. They kissed and kissed, uttering small growls of need, until it became apparent to both of them that they had a short sweet time while Regina was asleep, Gold was gone, the Nolans were on their way to the airport, and the world was not going to end at this exact and precise instant – and therefore, to quote a vampire bar in Boston, the diem should most assuredly be carped. And that was how about six hours after she had promised herself that it was not guaranteed to happen again soon if ever, Emma found herself quite naked in one of the mansion's luxurious beds, heels digging into the mattress as she arched her back, whimpering as Killian slid into her. God, it felt good to have him there. More than good, indescribable. As if she had been walking around for fifty years with a missing piece she had finally found, completing some deep and damaged chasm where it had been ripped out, and where things just _worked,_ flowed, _fit._ God. Oh God. It was probably a terrible idea to start a torrid affair on the brink of a war. But torrid affairs had been started for less, and in the same circumstances. And if she _was_ going to die, it wouldn't matter anyway.

Emma's eyelashes fluttered, mouth opening, as the springs of the bed, which were hardy creations but not up to the task of absorbing full-speed vampire intercourse without a few complaints, strained and squeaked. She fisted both hands in Killian's hair, pulling his mouth to hers for a savage kiss as he thrust, feeling it to the back of her throat, and hitched her knee up on his hip, riding him, their union all but literally striking sparks as she reached down to stroke him. They rolled over and over, sheets roping around their entangled bodies, pulling them even deeper into the throes of wild, biting abandon. She was briefly certain they made it to the ceiling at one point, or at least some position that defied gravity, halfway up the wall with the bed far below until they fell onto it again with a nearly earth-shaking thump. The impending, slowly increasing onset of climax was like nothing any human partner could have achieved, the way Killian only got stronger and hotter and harder inside her, until every intimate nerve she had was flushed and wet and lavished, until she couldn't see anything but white, until his mouth was biting her nipple and her legs were wrapped around his and she could feel their combined pleasure, his and hers alike, so delirious that it blasted into every pore and sinew. She collapsed like a falling castle, heaving, the pair of them having thoroughly used every inch of the bed as well as each other, his head on her shoulder, her arms around him, petting and caressing. Oh God. That had been even better the second time. She might not even need to feed on Merlin again, if this kind of power surge kept up. She likely would anyway, just to be sure, but _fuck._ Literally.

They lay there for several long moments, unable to even think of separating, until Killian rolled off her with a groan. Then he muttered hazily, "Wasn't too rough, was I?"

"No." Emma stretched, feeling blissful heat still rolling over her from head to toe. That silent, unspoken pain in both of them had met halfway and honed itself to a fine edge on each other, made it more poignant and more irresistible at once. God, however many years without an orgasm (at least other than the self-induced variety) and now two in less than twenty-four hours? She was going to spoil herself. "That was. . . that was amazing."

He glanced at her with a shy, crooked smile, as if to say that there were at least a few things he could do well, and she pulled him against her again, nuzzling her nose into the sweat-dampened hollow of his shoulder blades. She licked a slow stripe up his skin, tasting him, and draped her arm over his chest, playing big spoon. "Well," she whispered. "World's still not ending. I think we can sleep a little while too."

She felt him shudder a long sigh, leaning against her and letting her hold him, as she mused kisses across the back of his neck. They rearranged the knotted bedcovers as best they could, shaking the sheets and quilts over themselves. She was so comfortable that it felt like sinking into a cloud. Didn't want to get up or move or think again for a very, very long time. Just wanted to stay here in this moment, always. Small and perfect as if captured in a snow globe, secluded from the world. Maybe she could let herself fall. Just for a little while. Just for now.

She pulled Killian close again, and slipped under.

* * *

Henry woke up the next morning feeling, to his complete astonishment, actually rested. Sunlight was streaming in through the window, making the woods look like some sort of enchanted silvan glen, and although Liam wasn't there, it didn't appear to be immediate cause for alarm. Nothing was out of place or looked as if he had somehow slept through a violent supernatural attack, at least, and after he yawned, looked at the clock, and saw that it was 8:15 am, he rolled out of bed and made his way into the shower. The water pressure was so pathetic that it was practically like trying to wash himself under the tap, but at least it was hot, and he scrubbed and luxuriated until he felt marginally clean. Getting out, he dried off, gave himself a once-over in the mirror (men such as Liam and Killian could pull off the attractively unshaven look; Henry just looked like he had mange) and got dressed. He hoped there was something besides barbecue on offer for breakfast, and that wherever Liam had gone, he had not accidentally cottoned onto their whereabouts. Maybe out for a morning fox.

Henry stepped outside, carefully avoided the broken railing, and went down to the restaurant, which was set up as a continental buffet for the few other guests. Everything looked exactly as appetizing as only congealing eggs, stale bagels, and hockey-puck donuts could look, but he was hungry, and it tasted fine once he put a lot of jam and butter on everything. The coffee wasn't too bad either, and he drank two cups, restraining himself from more on the thought that they were probably going to be driving all day today as well and he didn't want to have to keep making pit stops. From glancing at a newspaper, he saw they were somewhere in New Hampshire, slightly south of Mount Washington, and had to make an executive decision about their next move. He did not fancy trying to get Liam across an international border, even one as lax and easily crossed as the U.S.-Canadian, unless he absolutely had to, as Liam did not have a single piece of ID and might accidentally turn into a wolf if the customs agent stressed him out. The best plan was probably to veer east into Maine, head to its northernmost tip, then jump a fishing boat to Nova Scotia if they needed to get into the country via less official channels. (He wondered if werewolves liked fish, or if that was more of a bear thing.) He also wondered if Canadian supernaturals had a different legal code that might affect how they dealt with Liam, if it was the same everywhere, or if he could take advantage of the fact that Liam, a British citizen (even from a very long time ago) would certainly be entitled to benefits of some kind or another in a Commonwealth country. Milk that sweet free healthcare, baby.

Henry finished his breakfast, put his dishes in the bus bucket, and went back to the room to brush his teeth, gather his things, and get ready. When Liam had still not appeared by the end of this, he was vaguely concerned, and was just about to wonder if he would have to go searching in the woods when Liam emerged, rather brambly and wind-blown but looking happier than Henry had ever seen him in the course of their brief acquaintance. "Ah," he said. "We're going, then?"

"I suppose, yeah." Henry went to the car, unlocked it and tossed his bag in, then went to the office to return the keys. He apologized to Donna again for the mess and ruckus they had caused, got out of there before he had to pay any extra (he felt guilty, but they would have to buy another tank of gas today and he was already scraping the bottom of the barrel; he would have to think of something fast to generate positive cash flow whenever they arrived at their hideout, whatever it was) and climbed into the chilly driver's seat. The problem for today's traveling remained the same as yesterday, but Liam looked so invigorated, color in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes, that Henry couldn't bring himself to suggest it. They could do without the wolfsbane, surely, if Liam just put on a blindfold or something, and when he suggested this, Liam quickly agreed.

They puttered along until they found a service station, filled up, and then hit the road, Henry pointing them east into Maine. It was a sunny, lovely early spring day, drops of snow melting off the thick trees as they wended through the national forest, and he finally said, "So, where were you a captain? British army, redcoats, Revolutionary War? Because you know, as an American, I'd have to object to that."

Liam's head turned sharply, realized he was joking, and relaxed. "How did you guess?"

"Just a hunch. You have that way about you."

"Royal Navy," Liam said after a moment. "Some decades before the colonies' war of independence. I was commissioned captain the year the pirate Blackbeard was killed, though I unfortunately did not have anything to do with that. We hunted – and put out of business – quite a few of his compatriots in the Indies, though."

"Year Blackbeard was killed. . ." Henry reeled through his mental roster of useful dates, then guessed, "1718?"

"That sounds correct. I can't remember exactly." Liam frowned. "Bloody hell, that was a long time ago."

"Usually when people say that about their lives, they mean something like twenty or thirty years," Henry said wryly. "I think you have them beat."

"Aye. I'd think so."

"Had you been a sailor all your life?"

"Aye," Liam said again, after a longer pause. "Not by our own choice. When Killian and I were boys, we were on a sea voyage with our father when he sold us to the captain in exchange for the longboat. We served six years before the mast until we jumped ship one night in Bristol. There was a Navy second-rater, the HMS _Imperator,_ anchored a few quays over, and since sailing was all we knew, I signed us up in hopes of a better life. I became de facto captain five years later after half the officers died in a terrible storm, and received my official papers from the Admiralty after we made it back to London and the crew swore for me, said I had saved their lives and there was no one else they'd sail under. That was our life ever since."

"Your dad _sold his kids into slavery for a boat?"_ Henry was outraged. "What a complete dick move! Why?"

"He was a fugitive," Liam said. "He wanted to escape the law. I never found out why. I tried not to dwell on it, or the anger would eat me alive. Killian carried it much harder."

Henry didn't answer for a moment, still indignant on the brothers' behalf, while marveling at the strength of character it must have taken to pick themselves up, for Liam to keep them together in the unimaginably harsh world of eighteenth-century merchant and naval shipping, and then manage to rise to the top through sheer hard work and quality, rather than nepotism and purchased commissions. He was dying to ask Liam more questions about his life, since it wasn't every day he got to interview someone with personal experience of the past (he tried to put his chat with Arthur out of his head, since knowing that guy, it had all been lies anyway) and he was sure he had at least a few colleagues in the history department who would gnaw their own arms off for the chance. "Well, like I said. I can tell."

Liam smiled wryly. "Some things stay," he said, half to himself. "Never the ones you'd think."

Henry said nothing, silently doubling his resolve to demonstrate to this man that he was neither an animal nor a slave, and was just about to switch back on the radio when he had, again and unmistakably, that sense from yesterday that somebody was on their tail. He hit the brakes abruptly, making both of them jerk against their seatbelts, and veered into the next pullout, as Liam pulled off the blindfold and stared at him. "What the devil are you doing?"

"Sorry," Henry said. "But I just. . . yesterday I was convinced somebody was following us, and it turned out someone was. I. . . I can't explain it, but I think someone still is. And it's not Lily."

Liam's brow furrowed. They sat tensely for a few moments, hearing nothing, and Liam shot a questioning look at him, as if asking if Henry wasn't just being (rather excusably) paranoid. "Well," he said. "I suppose it's good to be cautious. But are you sure it wasn't just – "

Whatever he had been going to say, however, he never got the chance. That was due to the fact that at that moment, an engine roared like an attacking Star Destroyer, a car rocketed into sight on the forest road, and it took Henry all of half a second to recognize it. It didn't make any sense, he didn't understand – but instinct was already taking over, starting the engine and slamming the accelerator through the floor, much faster than it was safe to drive on a narrow, twisting road lined with trees, but he didn't care. How Cruella de Vil had found them out here was something he preferred not to contemplate, even as he had a terrible feeling he knew. And there was no way she was coming to offer them an invitation to a garden party and a quick hop back to New York.

Henry practically redlined the Honda, which had not been designed as a race car and wanted very much to remind him of this fact, managing to keep a few lengths ahead of the onrushing Phantom, even as he could see Cruella in the rearview mirror waving jauntily at him, an extra-filtered cigarette perched between her impeccably red lips and a gin flask clutched in one hand. Liam stared at him in utter confusion as Henry barely avoided a spin-out and desperately tried to channel his inner Vin Diesel, even though he remembered reading somewhere that action movies got everything wrong about high-speed driving. If they could just get to an actual interstate, somewhere with cell phone service – as if he thought he could stop her or stymie her, when it would just be putting more people in the crossfire – but no. He wasn't doing it like this. Jesus, how had the old bag gotten here so fast (well, seeing her driving, that was probably not the right question to ask)? It wasn't _fair._

Henry's ruminations on the unequal hand of fate were cut short, however, as Cruella apparently hit some kind of turbo-booster button, roared up alongside him, and sideswiped him, enough to entangle their wing mirrors and haul the car out of his control, until he was a helpless passenger in a few tons of madly spinning metal, stamping fruitlessly on the brakes and sawing at the wheel to no effect, Liam was bellowing, and sky and ground spun wildly past until they came at once to a crunching, spitting, steaming stop, smoke billowing from the crushed hood. Henry unclicked his seatbelt, reached over to undo Liam's as well, and they rolled out onto the leaf mold, as Liam was more than halfway into wolf shape already and finished the change in another instant, snarling. They had landed in a deep ravine with high, broken ground on all sides, twisted underbrush and old-growth trees hemming them in, but Liam was clearly trying to get Henry onto his back and make a run for it. Henry clawed at fistfuls of his rough fur, balancing like a sack of oats, as he had never ridden a horse before and far less a werewolf, but not seeing many other options present themselves. Then there was a bang, and Liam skidded, foreleg bleeding, as Cruella stepped leisurely out of her car, holding a gun on them. "Excuse me, darlings," she called. "This party only _just_ started."

"You." Henry knew it was a stupid thing to say, knew even more that there was no way they were getting out of this, that the infernal bargain was going to come back and bite. _Never make a deal with the devil._ Literally the first rule of any story ever, and yet he, the English professor, had let this happen. "How the hell did you – "

"Oh, Miss Page was _very_ helpful." Cruella cocked her head at the backseat of the Phantom, where Lily, chained and gagged, could be spotted. "She didn't want to be at first, true, but we have ways to get around that, don't we? I do recall saying that I would be back for more of you, and that I was very keen on finally getting my new rug." She cast an appreciative eye at Liam. "So wonderfully furry. I can only imagine how much I will enjoy putting my feet on him after a hard night's work."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged," Cruella remarked, turning to point the gun at him. "Though this isn't my fault, you know. You and Killian Jones agreed that the wolf was mine if I helped. I did my part. Time for you to make good on yours. Hand him over, and you can go free. Once I've had a nice few feeds on you, of course."

Liam swiveled to stare at Henry with horror in his golden eyes, reverting out of wolf shape and into a man on all fours, crouched and crumbled and drained of defiance, as if a giant hand had reached from the sky and snapped his spine. His voice, when it came, was a shattered croak. _"You bloody_ _bartered me over to her?"_

"We didn't know it was you," Henry said desperately. "We were trying to get Emma out of the library, Gold had her trapped, we knew it was a bad idea to go to Cruella, but we didn't – "

"Don't blame him," Cruella said archly. "It was your brother's idea. If you had any notion of the number of werewolves he's killed, you wouldn't find it surprising at all. No use crying over spilled wine or however that dreary saying goes. He's a monster, you're a monster, I'm a monster, and now." She cocked the gun. "I'm going to put you out of your misery. Hold still, and I'll hit you in the heart, make it a clean death."

Liam didn't move, frozen like a sparrow in a serpent's eye. Henry stared at him, panicking, wondering why he didn't just lunge for her throat, until he remembered hearing something about Cruella's ability to control animals – she had given Liam a direct order, used her power on him, and he could do nothing but sit there and wait for the killing blow. And that could not, could _not, would not_ be how it ended. Not like this. No matter what.

Henry threw himself into one great leap.

Cruella pulled the trigger.


	20. Chapter 20

Emma awoke as completely and jarringly as if someone had screamed at her, that kind of overly dramatic, half-sitting, cold-sweat, breathless rouse from a nightmare the way she had thought people only did in movies, though in this case it wasn't a nightmare. While androids might dream of electric sheep, vampires of course did not dream of fanged ones, or anything else for that matter, but she couldn't get the overwhelming, burning image out of her head, branded on the inside of her eyelids. She wanted to think it was nothing, some potential weird new glitch of her _universus_ powers that could safely be overlooked, but she also didn't dare to take the chance. After lying motionless for several moments to see if the sensation faded (it didn't), she glanced at the clock, saw that it was still late afternoon, not the usual time a vampire woke or even had the ability to do so, and reached over to shake the pile of quilts next to her, a thatch of dark hair just visible on the pillow. "Killian. Killian, wake up. Wake up."

He didn't stir, making her wonder if she would have to resort to the dramatic methods of getting him out of stasis that she had employed back in Boston, until she finally leaned down and lightly bit his shoulder. That was enough to make him jerk, though thankfully not fly out of bed like a bomb, and roll over to face her. "Swan, what the devil? It's still the middle of the bloody day."

"I know." Emma twisted her fingers together, then unknitted them, foot tapping the mattress in a fit of nervous energy. "I think something's wrong with Henry."

That was enough to command his attention as he pushed himself upright with a grimace, shirtless, confused, and extremely attractively disheveled. "What? Where? What happened? Liam – is Liam – ?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure. It's like nothing I've ever felt. I just. . . I think we should call him."

Emma fumbled for her phone on the bedside table, knowing that if she was mistaken it could well betray his location and put them in actual instead of hypothetical harm's way, but she didn't care. She tried to keep her hands steady as she scrolled to Henry's cell number, hit it, and listened to it ring, keep ringing, and then roll over to his voicemail. "Hi, you've reached Professor Henry Nolan. I'm not available right now. If this is work related, please contact me at my faculty email or office extension. If this is personal, please leave a message and I'll return your call as soon as possible. Thanks." _Beeeeeeep._

Shit. "Hey, Henry, it's Emma. Please call me as soon as you get this message, all right? I just. . . wanted to check in, make sure you and Liam are all right. You don't have to tell me where you are, I. . ." She wavered, trying to sound normal. "Hope everything is going well. We're working on it down here." Did she confess the fact of David and Mary Margaret's involvement now? It didn't feel like it, especially if he might be dealing with other pressing issues. "I. . . there's a lot to tell you when you call, so please do. Thanks, bye."

With that, she hung up, as Killian was still regarding her worriedly. "You don't think. . ." he began, shuddered, and closed his eyes, as if he would give anything not to speak the next words, but had to. "You don't think. . . Liam hurt him? Or that Gold found out where they were?"

"No," Emma said, as firmly as she could, even though that particular horrible scenario had certainly flashed across her mind. They'd given Henry enough wolfsbane to knock out a whole pack for weeks, surely that would be enough to keep Liam under rein. (If he got Liam to take it, that was.) And Gold was in London, surely. They had to be fine – or at least not dead. Yet.

Nonetheless, there was no way to control the surge of anxious energy flowing through her body, and wondering how long the effects of her feed on Merlin would last before she had to do it again, she threw back the covers and got up. She didn't want it to abruptly wear off and thus leave her knocked out in daylight hours again, so maybe one quick top-up. . . and what should they do about Regina? Wake her up too? She needed to recover from the daylight shots, it would be counterproductive to just yank her back into the sunlight, and she wasn't likely to believe that something was seriously wrong just because Emma had, like every _Star Wars_ character ever, up and had a bad feeling about this. But nor could they suddenly disappear behind her back, in the case that they even needed to go somewhere or do something. They probably didn't. Could she really trust her own instincts? If Henry just called her back in the next few minutes, any incipient crisis would be decisively defused. But if he didn't. . .

"Love, wait." Although he still looked as if he very much would have preferred to sleep until sunset, Killian swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, magnificently nude, as she had started toward the door. The sight of him, while enjoyable, reminded her that she would very much confuse Merlin if she turned up in her similarly unclad state, and she yanked on her clothes, after a brief interlude to be impressed at how far they had managed to throw them. With Killian still hopping into his left boot as he followed her, she powered down the stairs, lit in early evening glow, and into the basement, to the cage at the far side. As usual, Merlin was sitting in his Inscrutable Mystic Master of the Universe detached repose, eyes closed and a faint frown creasing his brows; whatever the disturbance in the Force was, he seemed to have felt it too. Five bucks on him having absolutely nothing useful to say about it.

Pushing that thought away, Emma strode up to the cage and rapped briskly. "Hey. Did you – did you see something? Is that what I'm feeling by osmosis, through you? About – " She hesitated. "About Henry?"

It took a long moment for Merlin to open his eyes. When he did, they looked exhausted and pained. "I'm sorry, Emma."

"Sorry?" Emma demanded. "Sorry _why?_ I swear to God, if something happened to Henry, if you didn't warn us about – "

"I can't be sure. It all happened very quickly, and there are too many possibilities to see any of them clearly. It was. . . it was Henry, though. She found him. I'm sorry."

" _She?_ Zelena? Nimue? Someone even worse? Did they take him – what did they do with him, what happened?" Emma was almost screaming, and forced her voice down to a hard, direct tone with an unconscionable effort. "I don't care about how the future is a delicate mystery and you can't push or try too hard or whatever else you spout about not changing it. If you don't tell me right now what happened to my son, you can rot in that cage forever. I don't care."

"Cruella," Merlin said, after a final hesitation. "I'm not sure what exactly she did. But you never make a deal with the devil unless you're prepared to pay the worst version of the price."

Emma had heard enough. She whirled away, even as she saw Killian's face taking on a blanched, bone-white look of sick dread – he, after all, was the one who had made said deal in his desperation to rescue her from Gold's clutches. Henry had insisted that he consented to it in full faith and honor, that he'd known the risks and made a calculated gamble, but with the memory of how violently Cruella had fed on him the first time, and the minor fact that she had also been promised (albeit unknowingly) Liam's hide to make into a rug, the emergency was five-alarm-fire catastrophic. Without a word, she shoved her shoulder into the bars, fought through the peculiar resistance, and stepped out into the cage. She must have looked alarming enough to cause even an all-powerful sorcerer some disquiet, because Merlin held up his hands. "Emma, what are you going to – "

"Hold still," Emma said tightly. "I need to feed on you."

He looked as if he wasn't sure that was the most wonderful idea he had ever heard, but she had had it. She was dangerously close to using the mesmer to force him to comply if he tried to refuse – one line she had sworn never to cross after what Zelena had done to her and which, given his own past as a slave, compounded the crime unforgivably – but after a moment he nodded and offered his neck, still looking dubious. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Emma muttered, reminding herself that he was a living person and not a fast-food drive-through, and doing her best to be gentle about biting him, even as her worry was still clanging madly in her head. As before, the electrical thrill of tasting his blood, of the surge of power it gave her, fizzing and sparkling deliciously through her veins, was strong enough to turn her head, to make her briefly lose sense and shape and awareness of the world, that same creeping desire to take it and do whatever she wanted. It was for Henry, she insisted. She had to save Henry, whatever Cruella had done to him. Whatever else was possibly happening, or would happen, it could wait.

After a few moments, she stepped away, carefully licked the bite closed, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "So. Any chance you can tell us where this happened?"

Merlin closed his eyes again, concentrating. "Somewhere in the woods. North. I can't see anything else. Emma, be careful. This is a turning point beyond anything you've faced. If you make the wrong choice, we're all in terrible, terrible danger."

"The right choice is saving my son," Emma said coolly. "I don't care how. Killian, come on. We're going."

With that, she struggled out of the cage with a pop and back into the basement, strode up the stairs, and was just debating on leaving a note for Regina when she finally decided that she couldn't. Not after that conversation yesterday, not after that unspoken , tentative care Regina had shown for Henry, not expecting anything from it or for anyone even to notice. Not one more time. Besides, it was close to dusk, about when she'd be waking up anyway, and tempting as it was to throw everything to the wind and just rush off by herself, Emma was at least aware she couldn't do that anymore. It almost made her glad that David and Mary Margaret were gone, as if she could prevent them from finding out about this until she'd had a chance to mend it. God, she'd been so worried about how to explain to Henry that she'd put his human parents in danger that she had completely forgotten about the scenario being flipped. After Mary Margaret had thanked her, had given her that one sweet moment of absolution that she craved. . . she was going to ruin it, ruin everything, and they might already be too late. . .

Twenty minutes later, after Regina had been woken, had everything explained to her in a breathless jumble, then leapt out of bed, gotten dressed, and insisted they were leaving at once, they were headed north in her Mercedes, Emma driving and Regina and Killian in the back seat. Regina needed a proper feed to feel more like herself and shake off the lingering effects of the daylight shots, and Killian had reluctantly agreed to provide it, though the frosty air between the vampire siblings was still palpable. Nonetheless, he offered her his hand with impeccable gentlemanly chivalry, allowing her to bite down on his wrist in the same way he had fed Emma at the London Eye (she wryly supposed that he was quite a long way from trusting his estranged sister to clamp down on his throat). It must have been just as good, as well as the first time Regina had tasted Old One blood in a while, because she was practically chipper when she sat up, tidily retracting her fangs and pushing her hair out of her face. "Are you _sure_ Merlin didn't tell you anything else about where to go?"

"No," Emma snapped, ruthlessly overtaking a train of slower-moving cars in the left lane and flooring it again. She was just following her instincts, a faint bright spark like a homing beacon in her head, which would lead her to Henry, it had to, or. . . she wasn't entirely sure what she'd do, but it wouldn't be good. "I'm doing the best I can."

"And are we sure he didn't encourage this somehow?" Killian broke in. "Foresaw it but didn't tell us, the same way he keeps conveniently forgetting to mention things until after they happen? There's not interfering in the future, and then there's not interfering in such a way that it interferes nonetheless. I don't trust that man a bloody inch, and if I had my way, I'd – "

"Kill him, probably," Regina said tersely. "Isn't that the way you usually like to do things?"

Killian made an exaggeratedly sarcastic gesture of deference. "Oh yes indeed, Your Majesty, please enlighten us on your benevolent and wise methods of problem-solving. Never harmed a hair on a grasshopper's head, have you?"

Regina looked as if she was about to volley back an even more heated reply, shut her mouth with an audible click, and decided not to increase the internecine conflict, when they already had enough of one on the horizon. There was a very loud silence for the next five minutes, both of them internally stewing, until Emma was almost compelled to crack a terrible joke or something to break the tension. But she couldn't, she couldn't take her eyes off the road or slow down (she devoutly hoped there was no state trooper lurking in wait with a speed trap, or she was going to have to do bad things to him) and they flew up the highway well in excess of a hundred miles an hour. She still had that sense, that instinct – that meant Henry was still alive, right? Even if they had to fight through Cruella's whole coven when they got there, there was still a chance, and while Regina and Killian's bloodstained pasts were currently an issue of personal shame for them, it also meant they could tear their enemies apart with the best of them, and that was a character trait that Emma could use a little of right now. Anything else – she couldn't let it cross her mind, she couldn't. Not while she had to keep herself together.

They crossed into Connecticut quickly, then into Massachusetts, and skimmed over the edge of New Hampshire before plunging into Maine. Emma veered off the interstate and onto the maze of back roads, deeper and deeper into the woods, having to briefly stop, reorient herself according to whether the trail felt warmer or cooler, all three of them on the highest of alerts. Once a deer jumped across the road, she slammed on the brakes to barely avoid hitting it, and as she was still sitting with mouth wide open, no sound emerging, and hand pressed to her chest, Killian leaned forward. "Let us out of the car, love. Regina and I can cover the territory faster on foot. I. . . I smell her. Cruella. We have to be close."

"Then we're doing it together." Emma, hands shaking, rolled a little further up the road and into a scenic view pullout (there being nothing to see, because it was dark), parked, and switched the engine off. She wasn't too worried about carjackers deep in the boonies, unless a crazy meth head or anti-government survivalist burst out to complain of the interruption, but that was still the least of their problems. They piled out as if someone had pulled the eject lever, and she locked the doors, took a deep whiff of the cold, damp night, and felt a sensation like a kick in the chest. "This way."

They started to run, following the Ariadne's-thread of scent through the heavy underbrush. There was some low, boggy ground that broke down into a steep ravine, and at the bottom, unmistakably, was the wreckage of Henry's silver Honda Accord, twisted and bunched into a useless pile of metal. Cruella's white Rolls-Royce was still there as well, plowed half into its side like a ramming battleship, and at the sight of it, Emma let out a moan of terror. Not far, not much farther – what had she _done –_ if they were too late, if they were already too late –

They sped out of the dell and onto higher ground beyond. There was a dark silhouette – a cabin – something to use for summer picnickers or autumn hunters, out of season in winter, not much more than four walls and a roof, but the sensation beamed there the strongest. Not even the entire thirty-strong coven that had attacked Emma in London could have held her back as she closed the last ground, flew the last few yards, and jerked the door clean off its hinges.

A spill of harsh light, from the one bare bulb screwed in the ceiling socket, hit her eyes hard enough to make her wince, even as she was frantically blinking them to adjust. What she saw was bad enough to make her wish she hadn't. Cruella de Vil, sleeves rolled up and spangled flapper dress stained with blood, glanced up with shock and annoyance, eyes narrowing and fangs standing out like knives. "Well, well. What an unpleasant surprise."

"Get. Away." Emma hovered at the brink of the threshold, ready to do whatever she had to in order to get inside; this was a neutral ground, Cruella couldn't have much more claim over it than she did. She could just see Liam chained up in the corner, clearly fighting the impulse to turn into a wolf with all his might; once he did, Cruella could skin him and rug him at her leisure. But even worse was Henry, sprawled on the table like Lily had been back at the warehouse, a slow, steady scarlet flower soaking outwards from the gunshot wound in his side. He tried to lift his head, feverish and delirious, then dropped it.

" _Henry!"_ Emma felt something overwhelming roaring up in her, dark and fearsome as a tornado – whether her nascent _universus_ powers, the boost she'd gotten from feeding on Merlin, or her own accumulated rage and grief and guilt at how she had failed her son, and how she would rather die herself than let it happen one more time. She jerked her elbows back, winding up, then flung out both hands, feeling something erupt from them, tempestuous and uncontained, rattling through her flesh and bones and bursting like a broken dam. The invisible force streaked across the cabin, slammed Cruella full on, and lifted her up bodily, crashing her against the far wall hard enough to make the entire foundation shake. A lethal shard of wood jutted from her chest, her neck lolling at an awkward angle. She dangled like an insect pinned to a card, twitching and jerking, as the light in her eyes went out. She slumped. She stopped moving.

Invitation protocol, however much it had existed, broken, Killian, Emma, and Regina rushed into the cabin. Regina went to make sure Cruella was dead, Killian to Liam, and Emma straight to Henry, cradling his head, trying to get his eyes to focus, having a terrible flashback to when she'd held Killian just like this, living in pure and utter terror that he was going to be taken away from her. "Henry, hold on, we're going to help you, all right? We're here, it's all right." Tears overflowed in her eyes and streaked down her cheeks. "Just hold on. We'll get you to a hospital."

"Mom. . ." Henry's voice was a faint rasp as his bloody fingers fumbled for hers. "Mom. . . I'm not going to make it. . . to a hospital. How did. . . how did you find. . ."

"It doesn't matter." Emma's composure cracked in good earnest, shoulders shaking, as she bent over him. "Henry, don't. You have so much left to do. You can't. . . I can't let this happen!"

At that Henry, who had been struggling for breath his body didn't want to take, went still, enough to terrify her. Then his eyes flicked to Killian, who had been kneeling over Liam, trying to undo his chains, even as Liam was refusing to look at him. "Kil. . ." he managed. "Killian."

"Aye?" Killian glanced up, face white and eyes hollow. "Hen. . . Henry?"

"She can't. . . turn me," Henry croaked. "She's too young. I know she can't. You. . . you do it."

Killian went even more motionless, so that the small disturbances of the air could be seen around him. "You. . ." he said at last. "Lad, are you. . . are you _absolutely. . ._ the cost, leaving behind your human life, that world forever. . . you. . ."

"Here's the thing. . . I really don't. . . want to die." Henry struggled for a blood-stained grin. "We were talking. . . about whether I would choose it. . . at the moment of truth. Well. . . I am."

"I. . ." Killian looked as if he'd been hit on the head, glancing wildly at Regina. "No. You should do it. Not me. I'd – Henry, I'd – "

Regina looked even more terrified at the prospect than he did; after what she had said to Emma last night, about how deeply the terror of making any blood children had been imprinted in her, how she never had, too scarred and too scared of Gold, too unable to break free of his thrall on her, it was no wonder. "I don't know how! Because of him, because he would have – "

"Please." Henry's breath rattled in his throat. "One of you. I know. . . what I'm asking. Please tell my parents. . . David and Mary Margaret. . . tell them I wanted this. Tell them. . . they didn't do anything wrong."

At that, Emma lost it completely, folding in half in silent, wracking sobs, sinking to her knees on the knotty pinewood floor. Like a man in a dream, Killian stared for a moment longer, then staggered numbly forward, standing at Henry's side and looking down at his face. Barely above a whisper, he said, "If you do want this, you have to die first."

"I want it." Henry's eyelashes fluttered shut, as Regina came to stand at his head. "I trust you."

Killian's knees almost gave out, and Regina silently offered him a hand. Then she turned and beckoned to Liam. "Come on," she said quietly. "He's going to need you."

Liam moved closer as slowly as if wading through mud, searing blue gaze fixed unblinkingly on his brother. "There's the one thing I need to know first," he rasped. "Is it true what Cruella said? Did you sell me out to her?"

Killian's shoulders crunched harder. "Yes," he whispered. "I didn't know it was you. I told her she could have Gold's werewolf for a pelt. I thought it was just some slave. Because I've – in the past – I killed them. As many as I could. Anywhere I found them. All of them. For what they had done to you. I'm a monster, Liam. I failed you, and I'm." He shuddered, clutching onto the edge of the table, fighting the same kind of soul-breaking sobs. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Liam closed his eyes as if he had been the one shot, head bowed, motionless as marble. There he remained, until Henry held out an unsteady hand. "Hey. You. . . you too. With me. Please."

Liam hesitated an instant longer, then lurched the rest of the way to the table, taking Henry's offered hand in both of his large, rough ones. There they stood without a sound or a word, hearts well and thoroughly broken, as Henry's breathing grew shorter and shallower, face whiter and whiter. Emma kept sobbing without a sound, holding onto his hand, as his grip began to slacken. "We'll help you," she wept. "We'll all help you. You won't be alone. Not like I was. I promise."

"G. . . good." A bead of blood welled up and burst on Henry's mouth. "And I hope. . . it doesn't take years. . . to be able to see. . . daylight again. And I'm really going to miss. . . eating hot dogs. . . at Red Sox games. But it's. . . it's going to be. . . all. . all right."

Emma did her best to drag herself together, not wanting his last memories of his human life to be of her as a sobbing wreck, trying to smile for him, feeling as if her chest was filled with crushed glass, hiccupping and gulping. Killian reached for her hand, closing his fingers fiercely around hers until she couldn't tell what was her own trembling and what was his. Henry's eyes drifted closed, and didn't open again. He let out a sigh, and his head slumped back, the coiled tension and pain letting go at last. He didn't take another breath. The light, thready pulse in the hand Emma was holding struggled out a few more beats, and did not start again.

When she knew it was over, Emma turned away, retching, almost collapsing, as Liam moved in a flash to catch her, holding her upright as she buried her head against his chest, clutching onto him until she must have been leaving claw marks in his biceps. Killian, dead white but resolute, bent over Henry, lowered his head to his neck, and made the first bite, carefully drawing out the blood and mixing it with his own, feeding it delicately back into the wound. But when it came time to make the second one, he froze, staring as if in a hypnotic trance, fixated and horrified. Then at last, Regina moved forward. "I don't want to be afraid of Gold anymore," she said, voice scraped and raw. "I don't want to throw my chance away one more time. Let me help."

Killian hesitated, then nodded once, moving aside to let Regina make the second bite, which she did with the same exacting care. Emma wondered if any vampire had ever been changed by _two_ sires – or in this case, a sire and a dam – before, or if Henry would make supernatural history. This would in fact make him as much Killian and Regina's son as hers, according to the laws of blood right and kinship, and added in with the Nolans, that totaled five parents altogether. If David and Mary Margaret ever forgave her for letting this happen. She couldn't watch the last segment of the change, burying her face in Liam's broad chest again, tasting salt on her lips. This had to be enough. This had to be worth it. She couldn't stand it. No more. No more.

At last, Killian and Regina stepped back, the two livid wounds shining brightly on either side of Henry's neck. Then they shimmered, dissolved into his skin, and closed shut, as Emma moved forward cautiously, supported by Liam's arm, and stared down into his face, eyes still closed but the sense of something gathering form behind them again, waking from slumber. "Henry?" she breathed. "Henry?"

All at once, with that same horrifying suddenness as when she had witnessed Lily's transformation, his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, blind and wild, in full thrall to the fledgling bloodlust. Emma flew in to grab hold of him, the other three fencing in an immediate protective perimeter so Henry didn't get any ideas about running off into the forest, as she peeled back her sleeve and offered her wrist to him. "Here!" she begged. "Here, it's me, feed off me!"

Henry hesitated, breathing hard, staring at her with that filmy, uncomprehending gaze, until at last the hunger overtook him. He bent down, bared his new fangs with a pop, and bit, clumsy and starving, gulping and sucking, until she had a flash of painful memory to the first time she'd nursed him as a baby. She had loved him from the moment the doctor placed him in her arms, a scared teenager giving birth alone in a grimy municipal hospital with no one to hold her hand. Showing him to Neal when he got out of jail, convincing him to stay together. A family, she pleaded. They could be a family. Of course he had to stay for Henry. Of course they'd have a home. And the words underneath it, the terror. _Don't leave me. Don't leave me._ Until, at last and at the end of those scorched ten years, the bad marriage and the fights and the drinking, until she loved him and probably always would but couldn't bear to be near him any more, he did.

Emma struggled ferociously to hold back the tears, as Henry finished, let go, and blinked dazedly, his eyes coming into more focus as the full grip of the change took hold, the crucial first feed was done, and sense was restored. "M. . . Mom?"

"Yeah, kid. Yeah, it's me, I'm here." Emma reached out to touch his cheek, smiling even as her lips trembled and her voice quavered. "We're all here. You made it."

Henry glanced up at Killian and Regina, who were watching him without a word, perhaps feeling that same sensation as Emma had when the baby was put in her arms, that parent's first glimpse of their child, that unbidden and impossible and endless, unconditional love that took hold of them and never let go, that would not be changed or altered by any force of death or undeath, time or eternity, hell or darkness. Both of them looked utterly thunderstruck, rooted to the floor, until Killian finally moved forward. "Henry, you. . . Henry. . . are you all right, lad?"

"Well, I feel exactly as good as you'd expect for someone who was shot, died, and then got turned into a vampire." Henry tried to keep his tone light, even as it wasn't entirely steady either. "But I think I'll get used to it. I guess. . . this makes you my. . . my blood father now?"

Killian glanced away, scratching behind his ear. "It doesn't have to. Your mum and I both rejected our blood parents. Should say your mums, I suppose. It's your choice."

"David Nolan is my dad," Henry admitted. "As far as I know or feel right now. But I. . . I'm willing to see where this goes."

Killian paused, then nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. "Understood. I'd never want to press you, lad. It'll be as you decide."

Regina glanced at him, then followed suit. "I know Emma and Mary Margaret are your – your mothers. You probably don't think you need a third one. But if you want to let me into your life in that or any way, I'd. . . I'll be there for you."

"Thanks," Henry said quietly. "All of you. I mean it. This wasn't an easy choice for me and I don't think it'll get much easier, especially with what we're in the middle of. But I'm glad I have you. And I don't regret it."

"Good," a voice said from the corner. "You will need that strength for what is to come."

The family whirled around in horror, briefly convinced that Cruella was resurrecting, but it wasn't. Merlin moved forward, starry robes whispering against the floor, to regard them with that ancient, serene gaze as he came to a halt, surveying the scene, the new-turned vampire and the blood still dripping into the sawdust. "So," he said. "He survived."

"And you're free." Emma decided it was better not to ask how he had gotten here; that cage existed independent of time and space, as far as she could tell. It was probably a matter of merely opening a new door, out of New York and into the woods of Maine. "That was enough genuine heartbreak to get you out, clearly? Good, because it damned well better be. Is that what you wanted? Are you happy now?

"It worked," Merlin pointed out, with his usual maddening refusal to take the bait. "The game is changed. I am free and my powers are returned, and your son is not even permanently dead. We have a real chance. Is that so terrible?"

Killian's eyes were narrow. "I still don't like you, mate. Or trust you. What the bloody blazing hell are you going to do for us now that you _are_ out?"

"Whatsoever I am able." Merlin sat on the one rickety chair. "I _am_ on your side, you know."

"It's bloody hard to tell sometimes." Killian stood up, folding his arms, exuding a dark and tangible menace as he stared the sorcerer down. "I do believe you want to stop Nimue and reverse your mistake, put an end to this darkness before it consumes everyone. I'm not so sure that you're not willing to sacrifice every single one of us along the way."

"I've lived a very long time," Merlin said. "Seen many of you, even immortals, come and go. But Emma is the _universus,_ different from all who have passed before, and as I said, she changes things. And I think you know where you want to go next, and why."

Emma herself might not have been the first to get it, but she was the first to say it aloud. "London. We need to go to London and help. . ." She winced. "Help David and Mary Margaret."

"What?" Henry looked incredulous. "My parents? They're here? They're mixed up in this?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you before this, I just. . . there wasn't exactly a good time. They volunteered, they came to find us back in New York. They've been training for a long time, probably since they found out I was a vampire. They know a lot more about this world than you think they do."

"And you sent them to London after the terrible trio?" Henry's dubious expression didn't alter. "Couldn't even give them a paddle in the kiddie pool before you dropped them in the shark tank?"

"I tried to talk them out of it," Emma said. "We all did. They were insistent. They wanted to help us, to help you. And if we get there quickly, though I don't know how we will with another flight and however long that takes, we can still – "

Merlin chuckled. "No need for that. I can just open a door."

"Oh. Right." She'd forgotten about the sorcerer-with-fully-restored-magic thing. "And you're coming with us?"

"I can't. Nimue would sense my presence immediately, and that would put you all in even more danger. I'll stay at Columbia and protect the genuine copy of the _Liber incarcerati_ from anyone else, including Gold, who might return and try to get their hands on it."

"Fine." She had to admit, that was a fairly useful occupation, at least as far as useful occupations by Merlin's standards went. Still, you'd think that someone of his dungeon master talents would give them more of an advantage. _You'd think._ That appeared to be the cardinal mistake running through this entire insane adventure. "And you'll open the way to London now, then?"

"Wait," Henry broke in. "There was another vampire – Lily, Lily Page. She's the reason Cruella was able to find us. She must have gotten away when Cruella took us here. What happened to her?"

"I'll do my best to find out," Merlin promised. "The rest of you are going?"

"Yes," Emma said firmly. "Even if Henry has two new parents, getting the other two killed off would be a bit, well. Awkward."

Killian and Regina both looked startled but very pleased to be referred to as such, which they hastily disguised. Liam stood up as well; Killian was desperately trying to catch his eye, but his elder brother wouldn't look at him. Emma felt that ghost of Killian's pain as if it was her own, wanted to knock their stubborn heads together and make them forgive each other, but she had enough experience of the Jones brothers by now to be sure that it was far from that simple. "When we get to London," she said, "someone needs to take Henry somewhere to rest. Even if we give him Old One blood later, he won't be able to handle daylight right away. The rest of us need to track down Gold and the terrible trio, as well as David and Mary Margaret. They might just be landing."

"I'll look after the lad," Liam said quietly. "He's been doing the same for me."

"Take him to my house," Killian added. "You'll be safe there. Both of you. Please, Li."

Liam gave no indication that he had heard, not even turning his head as he helped Henry to his feet. Killian looked after them with raw, pleading hope and yearning, then struggled to shut off his own pain and focus on the task at hand, moving to Emma's side as Merlin began to draw a door in the air. Regina stepped up behind, and the five of them waited tensely until Merlin finished, reached for an invisible handle, and pulled it open. A dark alley stood on the other side, the wind that blew through smelling like fog and damp, the first blear of red dawn distant in the clouds. Emma could just make out the distant silhouette of Big Ben.

"Go," Merlin said. "We can still hope it's not too late."

That was far from the most encouraging sendoff, but Emma didn't care. She groped for Killian's hand, and he took it silently. She didn't know what came next, didn't know how they could fight, much less win. But the door was there, and the time was now, and her family was at her back, and Killian was at her side, and Henry was still alive, still here. There was nothing to do now but step forward into the rain, out of one place and into another, to begin, and so she did.


	21. Chapter 21

As they stepped out into the stone-grey, wintry predawn, the portal shimmering closed behind them and the London streets almost quiet, Emma rubbed her eyes, allowed herself one final moment of grief and weakness, then firmly pushed it away, squared her shoulders, and prepared to face up to the demands of action. "All right," she said. "Time for a plan. I'll meet the Nolans at Heathrow and explain up front what happened. I don't want them thinking we were lying or conniving or trying to keep anything from them. Killian, if it's all right with you, I'll just bring them to your place – you were going to have them stay there anyway, and we might as well make it headquarters. Liam, you can take Henry there right away, get him settled. Regina, if you could case the British Museum quickly, make sure there aren't any mysteriously dead curators or anything of the sort. All of them are here. We have to be careful."

"I'm sure I can find somewhere suitable to take the lad," Liam said stiffly, the clear implication of his tone being _somewhere else,_ and Killian winced. "I know a fair few places in the city."

"All of which Gold knows about as well." Emma turned to face him. "I'm sorry, I'm not giving you a choice. Henry's welfare has to come first. I know you're angry with your brother, and you have every right to be, but Killian's house is the one place we can be sure Gold can't or won't get into. The rest of us are going to be there, and it makes no sense to have you two out of sight and out of reach. It's in Russell Square. Killian can give you the address. Take him there."

Liam blinked, briefly thrown. "Rus – Russell Square? As in the Duke of Bedford's property in Bloomsbury, where we were going to buy a house?"

"Yes," Killian muttered. "Why do you think I chose it, you stubborn git?"

Liam opened and shut his mouth, nodded crisply, and hoisted Henry up. He hadn't been completely knocked out yet, possibly because he had been turned by two vampires and one of them a considerably powerful Old One, but he was clearly not all there. "You know," he remarked, "I was just thinking, am I the only person to have six parents? Two biological, two adoptive, and two blood. And my blood parents are brother and sister, which is very _Game of Thrones._ Actually, Killian, you can definitely pull off the Jaime Lannister comparison, former bad boy driven by love finally reforming because of a tough blonde. And Regina could totally do the Cersei Evil Queen thing. It works." Henry paused. "Shit. That makes me Joffrey."

Killian glanced worriedly at Emma. "He's raving. Is he all right?"

Despite herself, she had to bite her lip on a smile. "He's making nerd jokes. He's going to be fine. Do you want to call Will and find out what else he's turned up on the Old Ones registry or Arthur's potential activities? Invite him by, he can help us." She was hoping that showing Liam the fact of Killian having a werewolf friend would bring him around, prove that he had changed his ways even before he knew about his brother's survival. Besides, Will would if nothing else ensure that the mood didn't get too grim. Whether or not he meant to do that would be another question, but still.

"Aye, love, I can do that." He hesitated. "You're sure you don't want me to go with you to the airport? I was the one who turned Henry, I should be there to tell the Nolans about it and face whatever they want to say to me. I don't want you taking what should be my blame."

"Killian. . ." Once again, she found herself confounded by the depths of his loyalty, his inability to see anything but the worst parts of himself while offering such steadfast support and selfless devotion. She put her hands on his shoulders, wanting to draw him in for a kiss even in front of the rest of the family, but after a moment, made herself let go. "All right. Come with me."

He nodded, then stepped off to inform Liam of his address; he had already given David and Mary Margaret the keys, but somehow Emma didn't think that breaking and entering would be much of a problem for the werewolf. As long as he didn't cause too much damage. Liam hoisted Henry over his shoulder; he had finally succumbed to the sunrise and passed out, and as she watched them go, Emma felt a pang that was, for the first time in this entire demented odyssey, almost sweet. She had been so drowned in her feelings of inadequacy, of failing Henry, of leaving him twenty-two years ago, of all the mistakes she had made and her unshakeable fear that she had ruined him for life, that she was only now starting to see a fingernail of the silver lining. He had a large and eclectic family that, despite their personal foibles and rivalries, were all devoted to him, and could be assured of a warm embrace into the supernatural community. She wished with all her heart that he would never have had to give up his humanity, but she had wished it for a long time for herself as well, and that never made any difference. She didn't have to worry about losing Henry now. Didn't have to worry about seeing him grow old and die. They would be together more often, able to truly repair some of the time lost by never fearing to run out of it again. He seemed to be taking it okay, geek jokes and all, still her Henry. As long as it didn't cost him his relationship with the Nolans. As long as he still had that tie back to what had been, what had gotten him here, what had been his and would be as long as she could help it. No matter what, no matter what it would take or what it would cost, Emma vowed that she would make it right with David and Mary Margaret, she would fight as hard as she could to keep them in Henry's life and to encourage them to still be his parents. Not that she thought they'd turn their back on him. They couldn't. It wasn't in them. But they could hate her and Killian, and that was something she had to brace for.

Once Liam, Henry, and Regina had departed, Emma and Killian got a cab to Heathrow, where they arrived at not quite the hair-raising speeds of their last ride there with Will. She was left to reflect on just how much had changed between visits, as they quietly took hands to walk into the arrivals terminal and check the board for the Nolans' flight, which had just landed. There they stood, not letting go, until at last the groggy passengers began to filter in, putting away their passports from customs and checking hotel reservations. David and Mary Margaret were at the back, Mary Margaret carrying a long, thin package that must be her bow (Emma wondered what story she'd come up with to take it as a carry-on: professional archer? Olympic trials? Hawkeye/Legolas cosplay at a con?) and David yawning. Emma squeezed Killian's hand as hard as she could, then stepped forward. "Hey. . . hey, guys. Welcome to London."

David's jaw dropped. He looked wildly at her, then back at Mary Margaret, clearly asking if she saw her too, as if sure that the jet-lag was playing tricks on him. _"Emma?_ How on earth – didn't we just leave you back in New York last – "

"Yeah, you did. It's a long story. A really long story, actually. Killian and I. . . we need to tell you something. We're still going to his house afterward, but we need to find a private place. Grab your luggage, and we'll fill you in."

David looked at her askance, but went to the baggage carousel and pulled off their sensible suitcases, before following them outside and down to the Heathrow Underground station, as the Tube was much cheaper than a return cab ride and they could just take the Piccadilly line all the way to Russell Square. David and Mary Margaret were also clearly keen to experience this nugget of authentic English culture, if the looks on their faces as they bought their tickets were any indication. By now it was late enough that they picked up the full crush of morning commuter traffic on the way through central London, and from the look on Killian's face, the Dark Prince of the Night absolutely did _not_ mingle with the unwashed plebeians and was not enjoying being crowded against the back of the car by a throng of Chinese tourists, a fat chav in an Arsenal shirt, and a businessman who kept trying to check his email on his phone and elbowing him every time they decelerated into the next station. Emma supposed wryly that when you had plenty of old money, were used to being out by yourself late at night, and had lived here for centuries, you could come up with the impression that you did in fact own the place.

It was full light by the time they finally reached Russell Square, bought David and Mary Margaret breakfast (thinking it was the least they could do for what they were about to spring on them) and led them into the park, selecting an empty bench and chasing off the flock of ubiquitous pigeons. With no more distractions to keep them from the moment of truth, Emma fought a brief, overwhelming panic, squeezed Killian's hand hard, and turned to face them. "We need to tell you something, and it's not going to be easy for you to hear. It's about Henry."

"We thought that might be it." A faint line of concern creased Mary Margaret's brows. "Is he. . . he _is_ all right, isn't he?"

"In a. . . in a manner of speaking." Emma swallowed hard. "He's. . . there's no good way to say this. He's a vampire. Killian turned him last night, with Regina's help, to save his life. Henry requested it of his own free will, it was absolutely something he wanted. The person who hurt him is. . . is dead. I killed her. Henry is here with us, at Killian's place, and Liam is taking care of him. He's going to be fine, but he. . . but yeah, he's. . . he's not a human any more."

Forgivably, this took a very long moment to sink in, just as Mary Margaret was lifting her croissant to her mouth. Then it dropped out of her fingers, was pounced upon by the pigeons, and she let out a gasp and covered her face, as David rushed to put an arm around her. He patted her back, holding her tightly, even as he turned an equally stunned and betrayed expression to Emma and Killian. "Henry is. . . _Henry_ is. . .?"

"I'm sorry," Emma said again, feeling tears prickling yet again at her raw eyes. "Nobody wanted this to happen. Nobody planned for this. I didn't want you to hear it or find out some other way."

David continued to look completely blindsided, comforting his wife as he fished for words. Emma did her best to explain the whole sordid situation, emphasizing that Henry had done this of his own volition, and that while they still weren't certain exactly why he had been shot, it was very likely that it had been in the course of protecting Liam from Cruella. She decided not to heap the schism between the Jones brothers on the fire, as David was clearly struggling enough to accept that his son now had a second vampire father _without_ having to also know that said vampire used to be an unrepentant supernatural murderer. She kept assuring him that nobody wanted to take Henry away from them, that she would do her utmost to keep them in his life, as Mary Margaret quietly wept and David continued to look dazed. "We love him," she said at last, feeling it absurdly cold comfort but knowing as well that it was the truest thing that could be said, especially after seeing those looks on Killian and Regina's faces last night. "All of us. He has three vampire parents and a werewolf uncle, we won't let anything happen to him."

"But you already did." Mary Margaret didn't sound angry or accusing, and yet that almost would have been preferable to the sad, broken disappointment and grief in her voice. "Can he return to his career at Harvard as normal? Go back to seeing Violet Percy without this hanging over them? Spend time with Jimmy the way they used to? Join us for Thanksgiving? Any of that?"

"No," Emma said, staring at her hands. "He can't. But he can still have a life. He can still have a family that loves him, and be able to lead a fulfilling and enriched existence, just at night instead of day. The alternative was that he died, and it goes without saying that none of us wanted that. Nobody regrets more what Henry had to give up than me. I know what it's like. I know everything he can't do anymore. But I – " she took a deep breath, reaching for Killian again – "I'm also finally starting to learn everything that I _can_. And Henry's a hell of a lot more optimistic and resilient than I am. He'll pick it up quickly. The last thing he wants either is to lose you. He said you're still his father, David, and he always will be. Both Killian and Regina want Henry to view them as his parents in his own time, and at his own pace. They're. . . not expecting anything."

David rubbed a hand over his eyes, looking somewhat less than steady himself. After a moment he said, "I'd be lying to say that I never wondered if this day would come. But Henry is our son, and we will always put our family first. We'll never stop loving him, we'd never push him away. We just. . . need a minute to get our minds around this."

"I understand." Emma looked down again, circling the heavy pewter ring on Killian's forefinger. "I think you're taking this a lot better than most people would. I just. . . after you finally thanked me yesterday, Mary Margaret, I. . . I couldn't stand the thought that I'd let you down in the worst way because of it."

The older woman didn't answer, a silent tear slipping from beneath her eyelashes and making a glistening track down her cheek. Then she said, "So, if Killian and Regina are legally recognized as his parents in the supernatural world, what does that mean? Does he. . . have to change his name, anything like that?"

"What? No. He'll stay Henry Nolan, that's not going to be an issue. And vampires either have a blood mother or a blood father, there's been nobody to the best of my knowledge that ever had both. Henry's a unique case. He'll be able to do whatever he likes, probably. Once he. . . once he acclimates a bit."

Mary Margaret pulled a hankie out of her purse and wiped her running makeup, blowing her nose as David kept a protective hand on her back. They remained silent for a few moments longer, until Mary Margaret finally looked up again. "If it was this or losing him," she said softly, "thank you for saving him, Killian. I admit it's very painful to think of him with different parents, but I suppose we have to remember that he came to our family in the first place because of a situation like this. That we too were replacements. And family is rarely a picture-perfect Christmas card. It's always more complicated." She paused, suddenly worried. "I'm sorry, was that offensive? Do vampires celebrate Christmas?"

Emma had to laugh. "No, it's not. We don't get along with religious icons, but we like a decorated tree and presents as much as anyone. There are Jewish vampires who celebrate Hanukkah. It changes your views on eternal life and why religion promises to give it to you, and there are plenty of philosophy and theology books on it, for sure. But I. . . I've actually not really celebrated Christmas. Since the change. So I guess we can make that up as we go too."

Mary Margaret managed a wan smile. She was clearly still not completely on board with it, but was doing her best to be gracious, and Emma, who had struggled for twenty-two years with the fact of having to allow someone else to be Henry's parents, tried not to compare herself negatively to the other woman being able to more or less come around to it in the course of a morning. Mary Margaret was probably compartmentalizing, realizing that the mission and the danger were still greater and that her personal feelings had to be tidily put somewhere they couldn't interfere. Then she wiped her eyes one more time, stashed her handkerchief away, and said pragmatically, "Well then. We didn't come to London to cry on park benches. Let's go."

David helped her to her feet, retrieved the suitcases, and they followed Killian across the square to the rowhouses on the far side. They went up the steps, Killian took the keys from David and unlocked the door, and pushed it open. "As long as we're here, what's mine is yours."

Emma stepped inside after him, glancing around; seeing as her last visit here had been a brief visit at night after tricking and manipulating her way in, she was curious to see it by the light of day. As she remembered, it was sparse and barely furnished, with few modern amenities or elaborate décor; Killian had probably not seen the need for it. But it was comfortable and well-worn, and from the look on his face, he was deeply glad to be home. The smell of something cooking wafted from the kitchen, as Liam was the only supernatural present who could not feed on one of the _other_ said supernaturals, and must have made an emergency grocery run. They headed through the narrow hallway to the back of the house, where Liam glanced up from the stove as he tipped several glistening rashers of bacon onto a plate with toast, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and beans, a cup of tea steaming alongside. "Been a long time since I've had a proper breakfast," he said gruffly. "I'll wash up."

"I – no, Li, I. . ." Killian hesitated, clearly struggling against overwhelming emotion as he looked at his brother in the kitchen of what should have been their house hundreds of years ago, finally feeling able to cook himself a real human meal instead of slinking out to snack on vermin, or whatever bones and scraps Gold had tossed him. "It. . . I. . . you have all the breakfasts you want. _I'll_ wash up. Henry's. . . Henry's settled?"

"Bedroom down the hall from yours." Liam put the frying pan in the sink. "He'll sleep a while."

Killian kept looking at him hopefully, praying for a crack in his distant, standoffish coolness, but Liam did not seem inclined to provide it, carrying his plate to the table and sitting down. Killian walled off his hurt again as Emma watched, hitching his smile into place and offering tea to David and Mary Margaret, which they accepted; they could do with a restorative cuppa after the trauma of the morning news. They all sat down at the kitchen table, Liam polishing off his breakfast in record time, and Killian excused himself to call Will. He had just returned when there was a knock on the door, he vanished to answer it, and reappeared with a grim-faced Regina. Throwing herself into the nearest chair, she said without preliminary, "Half the curatorial staff of the Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan at the British Museum has come down with some kind of mysterious virus, and they've missed work for the last two days. The main archivist isn't in today either. So if, say, someone was picking them off and waiting for an opportune time to rob its collections, now would be an ideal moment to do it."

"Mysterious virus, my arse," Killian muttered. "I suppose we're lucky the terrible trio hasn't just murdered them outright?"

"That would attract attention," Regina pointed out. "Press coverage, investigation, people asking questions. Arthur never likes to get his hands dirty outright if he can avoid it, and it's hard to say if he or Gold is the one responsible for thinning the herd. No need to kill them if you can just keep them sick and out of the office for a few days, probably feeding on them for your trouble. One of them will be mesmered into revealing where they keep the stored artifacts and how to access them, probably the main archivist right now. If it's Gold, I could probably guess where he's keeping them, we could just go in and grab them and – "

"Blow our cover spectacularly," Killian countered. "And likely get any other prisoners _actually_ killed for our trouble. Bloody hell, sis, you know I don't like the idea any more than you, but we have to have more strategy than just popping up on his doorstep and hoping that his stupefaction at seeing us renders him momentarily unable to do anything terrible. And if Gold can't really do anything with the Osiris scale unless he has Emma, what use is it to him on its own?"

"Have you gone _completely_ naïve after your hundred years of solitude? Once he has it, he can hold all of London hostage, threaten to cause some terrible catastrophe unless Emma goes back and upholds her promise to work for him! You and I know the best what he's capable of unleashing on this city! Merlin's ideas of what damage he can do and our ideas of what damage he can do are _very_ different! How about we just stop Gold from getting it in the first place and cut off his leverage? Would that be so hard?"

"Brilliant. Why didn't we all think of that before?" Killian rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "And once again, do you have a better plan than walking up to his front door and asking him nicely?"

"I wasn't going to ask him nicely." Regina clenched a fist. "I think we can agree on that. Unless you're feeling extra cautious now that you're a new father? It does tend to happen, I hear."

Killian shot her a black look, glancing at Emma for support. "Well, love, you're the swing vote. Do we risk going after Gold directly and trying to rescue whatever hapless curator he's gouging for information, assuming that it _is_ him and not the terrible trio? Or do we go straight to the collections and defend them against an assault to get the scale, from any one or four of them?"

She had to take a moment to consider. She was honored that he trusted her judgment so much, if not at all sure that it was merited, and could see both potential points of view. On the one hand, she didn't want anyone else to suffer at Gold's hands, especially another human who would have no idea what they had the misfortune to get mixed up in, but Killian was right that gambling everything on a brazen rescue mission had the possibility to backfire badly. Going to the archives seemed like the safer defensive option, posing a larger chance of saving the scale, but if they committed themselves there and Gold decided to use that against them. . .

There was no way to make a completely safe choice, she knew. Not with the stakes what they were and the magnitude of the villains they were facing. Either course of action could succeed, or go down in flames and doom them all. They were looking at her, waiting to see what she would say, even though Regina was a vampire queen, Killian was an Old One, and Liam had been Gold's slave for almost three hundred years, and she had to take a moment to consciously accept that responsibility, to shoulder it. Briefly she wondered if her murder of Cruella made her the new queen of New York; that was usually how positions changed hands in the supernatural world in the past, killing or defeating whoever held it before you. At least she could hardly do a worse job, but that was beside the point. She still had to make a choice.

She opened her mouth, although she wasn't quite sure what she was going to say. But she was interrupted by a knock on the front door, followed by footsteps in the hall, and the next instant Will Scarlet, who apparently felt perfectly comfortable letting himself into an Old One's lair, stepped into the kitchen. "Hey, love, what did y – " At that, he caught sight of the crowded table, and blinked. "Really do have the entire knitting circle over, didn't ya?"

"Just because you _can_ enter without an invitation doesn't mean you _should,_ " Killian complained, with the air of one who had tried many times with an utter lack of success to pound some proper manners into the uncultured philistine. Nonetheless, he flashed a small but genuine smile, and Will squeezed his shoulder, glancing around in vain for an empty chair. Denied, he shuffled in to stand between Killian and David, lustfully eyeing up Liam's mostly-empty plate of breakfast. "Got any more of that to go around?"

Liam looked up at him, startled – then frowned. "You're a werewolf."

"What'd I look like, mate? Posh Spice?" Turning to Killian, Will added, "Nothing gets past that one, does it?"

"Watch it, Scarlet. That's my brother."

"Your _br –_ " Will's jaw nearly hit the floor. "Your _broth –_ love, didn't you say he was. . . that is, I was under the distinct and firm impression he was. . . um. . . a large fierce fellow sittin' across from me while glaring. Excellent glaring happenin', really. Couldn't mention that, could you? Give a bloke a little heads up?"

"I thought it wasn't exactly something to be confided over the phone," Killian said to the ceiling, which he customarily addressed with heaven-raised eyes when Will was talking. "Aye, that's him. L-Liam. The others are my sister Regina, David Nolan and his wife Mary Margaret, and you'll have met Emma." He indicated them in turn. "Everyone, this is Will. He's never heard of a brain to mouth filter and I'm quite sure he gave me fleas once, but we get along."

"Never goin' to forgive me for that, are you?" Will muttered. Louder, he added, "You said as well you had a new son, so unless there's somethin' you _really_ haven't told me, I'm guessing it's of the blood sort. Where's the bouncing bundle of joy?"

Killian winced. "He's asleep upstairs, and he'll be for a while. I didn't invite you over to be the perverted uncle, you know. It was a delicate situation and it wasn't what anyone wanted, so while I know it may kill you, please attempt some tact and restraint." He glanced back at Emma. "If he hasn't completely crashed your train of thought, love, where were we?"

"I, ah." Emma took a moment to regain it, as she had still been cogitating over her decision. "We need as many eyes on as many places as possible, and we need to make sure we're covering everyone's weak side. Killian, you go with David and Will to the British Museum and keep an eye on anyone who might try to get into its collections. See if the scale's still there, and if so, guard it with your lives. Regina, take Mary Margaret and head to Arthur's mansion. He doesn't strike me as someone who'd bother finding a new hideout when he has his luxurious pad to go back to. The others are probably with him. Play double agent, tell him you've seen the error of your ways and want to make sure you get that witan seat. Mary Margaret, I'm guessing you can play charming and naïve pretty well. Pose as Regina's drone, maybe you can get him to talk."

"Arthur as in _King_ Arthur?" Mary Margaret blinked. "The one you said was actually evil? I'll do my best, but are you sure they wouldn't decide I was just a walking appetizer. . .?"

"I'll protect you," Regina said. "As long as I don't need to babysit or hand-hold you."

"I can handle myself," Mary Margaret said again, echoing the Nolans' promise back in New York, mildly but with a surprising steel. "I won't slow you down."

Regina didn't look entirely convinced, but accepted the assignation with no more than a curt nod, before turning to Emma. "And what about you? You're planning to take on Gold single-handed, is that it?"

"I. . ." Emma paused. "I have the _universus_ powers, or at least whatever feeding on Merlin has given me. I don't want to send you, Killian, or Liam after him. You're too close to the situation, to him, and he could still take Liam's mind over again. Obviously we can't throw David and Mary Margaret to the figurative wolf who's a literal vampire. It has to be me."

"That's idiotic," Regina said flatly. "You're the one he needs, the one this entire insane plan of his hinges on. If you got there and he already had the scale, what if he – "

"Yes," Emma said. "I'm the one he needs. That gives me some measure of protection that the rest of you don't have. If I come to him, he can't go after anyone else to force my hand, and he can't kill me, because otherwise he's out one _universus_ with no way to get a replacement. I can't put anyone else in danger because of me. I can't let him threaten or hurt anyone else I care about, not any of you. I'm going, that's final, and you aren't changing my mind."

Killian, Liam, Will, Regina, David, and Mary Margaret all opened their mouths at once, thus agreeing on something for the first time since the meeting started. They kept shaking their heads, particularly Killian, whom she had known would object the most vociferously. "Love, no, I can't let you go after Gold alone. Unthinkable. What if he – "

"What if he staked you again, and made me watch?" Emma met his gaze, cool and levelly. "What if he did something worse? To you or to Liam? Whoever I took with me, I'd just offer up as bait. And I can't watch another one of you die. Not again. Not after Henry."

Killian closed his eyes, clearly preferring to walk across live coals rather than accept this, but at last apparently decided that if she had enough faith in her abilities to think she could manage it, and enough conviction of its necessity, it was not his place to cut her down or disbelieve her. That didn't mean, however, that he had to like it. "Fine," he said tersely. "But at least take Will with you to stand lookout."

Emma hesitated, but it couldn't hurt to have an ally in the vicinity if things _did_ go sideways. "All right. But he stays on the perimeter. As far as facing Gold, I do that alone."

"No problems there, love." Will looked slightly apprehensive. "Sure I can't convince you to just, I don't know, change your name and buy a guard dog? Not me, mind. A German shepherd, or a Rottweiler? Or a really mean chihuahua?"

Killian gave him a look, and he held up his hands. "Just tryin' to think practically. Aye, I'll come with you, and mesmer don't work on wolves, so at least he can't jump into me head and drive me like a fun-fair bumper car of evil to some terrible – "

"About that," Killian interrupted, glancing nervously at Liam. "With him, it's. . . more of a guideline. We're still discovering what he _can't_ do, rather than what he can."

"Now you tell me that." Will heaved a martyred sigh. "This isn't a plot to kill me to get my unlimited Oyster card, is it?"

"What do you need an Oyster card for when you've got that hideous hot-rod? Bloody hell, Will, just look after her, all right? I hate this plan enough as it is."

"I'll do that," Will promised, suddenly turning serious. "You know I won't let you down."

Killian met his eyes for a long moment, then nodded. "Aye, love. I know."

"What about me?" Liam interjected. "What am I supposed to do in all this?"

"You're going to stay here and guard Henry," Emma said firmly. "I'm not leaving him here completely undefended, and I don't want you to be hurt any more."

Liam looked unconvinced, as it clearly went against every fiber in his body to let others face danger while he stayed behind in comparative safety – he had been a Navy captain, and from what she had seen, a damned good one. Of course he didn't want to send his crew on something he wouldn't risk himself, even with as much punishment as he'd already taken, but after a long moment, he nodded. "We wouldn't want the lad waking up alone, of course. As you wish."

"One other thing," Emma said. "You know more than anyone how much we need to weaken Gold's grip on you, and we can't give him anything to latch hold of and use against you. When I was in your head, looking for the mesmer, I saw that he – " she nodded at Killian – "had managed to weaken it in just those few minutes you spent out in the backyard together, right after you found each other. Before we leave, you two need to work this out between yourselves."

It was difficult to say whether Liam looked more stubborn, Killian more apprehensive, or everyone else suddenly became very fascinated with the tablecloth and cups of tea. Finally, it was Will who spoke up. "Why, mate? You got a problem with your brother?"

"I don't," Liam growled, eyes distinctly golden and a tone in his voice suggesting that lesser-ranking members of the pack should shut up sharpish if they didn't want the fur to fly. "He's the one who appears to have the bloody problems."

"Oh?" Will sat up straighter, shifting protectively toward Killian as his own eyes took on a tint of lupine yellow and his ears laid back, lips curling over a pair of elongated canines. "I don't care who you are, or how long you been a wolf, or how sad your own story is. You hurt him one more time, I'll kick your furry arse from here to Reading."

Liam looked justifiably confused at this apparent willingness by one of their own kind to defend a wolf-killer, as well as chafed at the idea that this scrappy upstart could actually take him head-on in a fight. As for Killian, he laid a hand on Will's arm, backing him down, as they shared the sort of look in which nothing was said aloud but much was understood. In it, Emma could easily see how long they had known each other, how much pain they had shared with each other, and how much trust there was between them despite their constant snark and banter, and she had no doubt that Liam could as well. Indeed, he looked slightly less certain of his convictions, and glanced away with a cough. "Fine, then. We'll talk about it later."

"I was thinking now," Emma said. "There's no time to waste. Killian and I can handle the daylight for the time being, and I don't want you to have to take another shot, Regina. Will that feed you had on Killian last night hold you over?"

"It should do the job for today," Regina said. "I imagine Arthur will offer something in the way of sustenance as well, if I turn up promising to help."

"Just be careful with drinking it," Emma warned. "He was feeding us on Nimue's blood back at the hotel in Boston, and it had a definite effect on both of us. It would do something to you for sure."

"I'll handle it," Regina echoed. "My lookout to worry about, Miss Swan, not yours. Especially since you're the one planning to take on Gold."

"Yes," Emma said neutrally. "Where's he hiding?"

Regina hesitated, then sighed. "His townhouse in Chelsea, I imagine. He's lived there for many hundreds of years, and as I said, Old Ones don't change their stripes or their territory easily. Even someone who's broken as many rules as Gold will want that familiarity, that safety. I'll give you the address. At least that way we'll know where to pick up your corpse."

"She dies, it'll likely turn into ash before you can get there," Will commented unhelpfully. "Buy a nice little porcelain vase, kind you pop Grandma in on the mantelpiece?"

Killian smacked him on the arm.

"This what I get for defendin' your honor, eh?" The young werewolf pouted. "You're such a fickle fellow, Jones. No wonder it would never have worked between us."

Liam looked even more startled at this, as well as leveling a narrow-eyed glare at Will as if suddenly wondering if he needed to give him the overprotective big brother runaround several decades too late, but Regina cleared her throat with a sound like a gunshot, and everyone jumped. Then they pushed back their chairs, took the cups and dishes to the sink, and prepared to disperse on their assigned missions. Emma noticed David already eyeing Killian like a hawk, and hoped he wouldn't get so carried away in grilling him about his intentions on her and/or Henry as to lose sight of their actual task. She doubted it, though. David might have that sometimes irritatingly unswerving moral compass and black-and-white view of the world, but she knew he'd fight with everything he had. It might be good as well to pair up Henry's new parents with Henry's old parents, which she had done on purpose. Get a chance for them to know each other, to work together, to trust each other. Regina and Mary Margaret had already agreed to their assignment, Killian and David would certainly hold up their end.

Emma herself did not have much to prepare. Ordinary weapons wouldn't do her any good, and coming in empty-handed might induce Gold to underestimate her, or at least think that she had come to help him, as promised, long enough for her to get the lay of the land. Oddly, she wasn't very scared. Intimidated, yes, and not sure if she'd ever see any of the others again, and still sad, but not scared. She had a sense of inevitability about it, almost of destiny, as if perhaps Merlin hadn't made the world's most egregious mistake and doomed them all to die out of hand when he created (or saw, or whatever he had done) her as the _universus._ It was different, and strange, and poignant, as if it was finally starting to flower just when she might be going to die anyway, but she still didn't think so. Something else lay in store for her, something strange and shadowed, and she was setting out at last on the road to meet it.

"Be careful," was all Killian seemed capable of saying, as they stood in the front foyer, holding hands and touching foreheads. "Bloody hell, love, be careful."

"I will be." Emma managed a faint smile. "You too. He could just as easily be going after the British Museum as he could be hiding back at his place. Look after David, all right?"

"I suspect he'll be looking at me with a disapproving expression the entire time, so that shouldn't be a problem." Killian quirked a wry eyebrow. "But I've yet to see you fail, Swan. You can do this. We'll see each other again. I don't know how or when, but we will."

Emma looked at him, fragile heart feeling too full, wanting to say they would, wanting to believe him, wanting to see the light on the other side more than anything. But she didn't know, and she couldn't say, and finally all she could do was cup his face in her hands and kiss him for a hard, long moment. "Hey," she whispered at last, when they pulled apart. "I'm glad I met you."

"And the same." He still didn't take his eyes off her, the imprint of his gaze heavy in her soul. "Don't let Will do anything stupid, all right?"

"Heard that." Will loped down the hall, having considerately withdrawn to give them a moment of privacy. "Same for you, Jones."

Killian nodded, clasping Will's arm quickly, then letting them both go, as Emma opened the door and stepped out into the overcast London day, Will stoutly at her back. She didn't know if she would be strong enough to go forward if she looked back, and so, though it killed her, she did not.

* * *

Once he was sure that Emma and Will had gone, that they had not forgotten anything and would not be returning, Killian turned on his heel and went back inside, down the hall to the kitchen where only Liam was left, still sitting in his chair and looking up at the grey light slanting through the high window. He himself had rarely seen his own house by day, or in much of a state to remember it, and he felt a brief joy of it, of having it, a home, a place that had been his for so long and yet nothing more than a glorified coffin. Somewhere he went to lie down and forget, to make the world stop. Seeing it with people in it, with a family, bringing it to life, had jarred and moved him deeply, and so, for that, for all of them, he had to face up to this. Give it a try. For whatever good it would do, it didn't matter. He couldn't carry on like this.

"Li." Killian closed the kitchen door with a creak of old hardwood and sat down across from him. "Talk to me. Please."

For a moment longer, Liam obstinately carried on pretending that the walls had developed a keen interest in heart-to-heart conversations, and that surely nobody else actually present in the room had actually spoken. Then at last, he turned his head, meeting his brother's eyes with a shock that Killian felt almost tangibly, snapping through the still air. "What do you want me to say?"

"Something. Anything. Shout at me, if you want. I'd deserve it. Just. . . bloody hell, please. Don't shut me out. I can't stand it. You're breaking my heart. After having lived without you so long, and then finding you, and discovering that you survived in the worst possible way, and now you know what a monster I became, and you're stonewalling me. . . Li, please. Just thump on me a bit, call me a selfish, pigheaded, purblind idiot, and forgive me. Thump on me twice, if it helps. Please. _Please."_

Liam looked pained at the open pleading in his voice, and he sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. Finally he said, "I'm not angry at you, Killian, as much as I am at myself. I failed you. That day with Gold, after he'd turned you. . . I should have protected you. I should have gotten you out of there. And then. . . all that time as a slave. . . on the rare occasions I did remember who I was, I told myself you must have gotten away. . . you were safe. Surely you wouldn't have been as weak as I was, to give into him. I always expected the best of you, and you had never once disappointed me before. But this. . . hearing this. . ." He closed his eyes. "Then I knew you weren't. That all the lies I'd told myself to comfort myself were just that, lies. You fell as far as I did, little brother. I couldn't help you. There was no good outcome to what happened to me. There was no saving grace. Just both of us in pieces."

Killian closed his eyes, struggling against the hole in his chest, until it felt as if the floor had vanished out from beneath him and he was adrift in a great dark sea. "I know I disappointed you," he croaked. "I know I abandoned everything you wanted for me or raised me to be. And of everything that happened, that was the one thing I could never forgive in myself. So if you don't, I'll. . . I'll understand. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Liam looked back at him with eyes glittering too brightly, as at last he reached out a scarred hand and covered Killian's with it, twisting their fingers tightly together. Then at once he got up and moved around the table toward him, kneeling in front of him and taking hold of his other hand. "Bloody hell," he said, voice rough with unshed tears. "Never forgive you? After what _I've_ done? Gold wasn't always mesmering me, you know. Not even he could keep up that level of power and control forever, especially when he was weaker. He convinced me too. Had me believing it was the only way, I had to help him, I had to do this for him, and I did. Sometimes just to make the pain stop. Sometimes because it was the only life I could see or remember. Killian, I have loved you for my entire life, more than anything in the bloody world, from the moment Mother put you in my arms and you were a red-faced little thing that would only stop crying when I held you. And nothing will ever change that. I'm sorry. Christ, I'm so sorry."

Killian felt as if his back had been broken, as if the air had been sucked from his lungs, as he slid gently onto the floor next to Liam, their hands still clutching, chests heaving, unable to form coherent words or do anything but shake. They rocked together, holding on, holding on, until Killian's head leaned against Liam's shoulder and Liam wrapped him fiercely in his arms, resting his chin in Killian's tousled hair. "Selfish, pigheaded, purblind idiot," he whispered, kissing his forehead. "I'll probably thump you later."

"Then I'll thump you right back," Killian managed, gasping a laugh. He shut his eyes, reminded of all the nights as boys aboard ship, squashed into the same evil-smelling hammock below decks, and how he had fallen asleep by listening to Liam's heart under his ear. Steady and constant as the evening star, reminding him that he was not alone, he was never alone, that his compass would always point north and his winds be fair, no matter how much durance vile they had to endure in the meantime. No wonder he had floundered, broken up and sank, caught in a terrible storm, when he lost all of it at once. He still didn't know what he had done to deserve it being returned to him, even in as dark and dangerous circumstances as these, but the gratitude hurt him physically, made it impossible to breathe (lucky thing he didn't strictly need to), to stand up, to open his eyes, without feeling it. A sweet pain, unimaginably sweet, sharp and sad and clear. Burning clear and bright as a single candle, a flicker of hope against the darkness and the worst it could offer. Still there. Still there.

They sat like that for several minutes, until there was a muffled shout from outside the kitchen, and the trance broke. They disentangled themselves and got to their feet, wiping their eyes with their knuckles, laughing unsteadily, as Killian prepared himself. "I love you," he said. "Whatever happens, Li. . . I just want you to know."

"I know." Liam smiled softly. "I love you too. I always have, and I always will. I'll look after Henry here. I suppose he's actually my nephew now, isn't he? Go."

"Aye," Killian managed, tongue and heart tied in too many knots to come up with anything else. "If we don't come back. . . do everything you can for him. Make sure he knows the right sort of people. Has the best afterlife you or anyone can give him."

Liam nodded. He didn't say that of course they would come back, that everything would be all right, for he knew as well as anyone that this was no guarantee to make. "I'll do that."

Killian squeezed his hand quickly, then let go, turning away, letting himself out of the kitchen, and finding David waiting at the end of the hall. He offered a somewhat stiff nod, which the other man returned, and they let themselves out into what was now a steady drizzle, walking to the corner and the few hundred yards up to the main British Museum entrance on Great Russell Street. While they may be there on an important, world-saving mission, the place did not look to be burning down on the spot, and David wanted to look around. "Besides," he added, "we have to scout the Ancient Egypt exhibits. Gold might have persuaded the curators to put the scale on display somewhere it's more easily acquired, rather than having to dig through all the sealed boxes of stuff in the basement."

"True," Killian agreed, impressed at this evidence of critical thinking. They hooked onto the back of the nearest ubiquitous throng of jumper-clad schoolchildren, slipped into the Egypt section, and commenced their best inconspicuous wander from display case to display case. Killian couldn't repress a brief conviction that Gold might try to bring the mummies to life to chase them around, though he supposed he'd just seen too many pulp films (if nothing else, they were good for passing a lot of empty time). But considering what Gold had _already_ been proven capable of, it wasn't as far-fetched a threat as it sounded.

They finished a first circuit without success, and paused in one of the connector halls, watching the schoolchildren proceed dutifully toward the exit under the shepherding wing of the chaperone. Unexpectedly David said, "You don't have any kids, do you? Other ones?"

"Henry is the first." Killian had wondered if this conversation might be coming, and wasn't sure whether to prepare himself for advice or accusations. "Hardly the traditional path to parenthood, but there you have it. I assure you, I do not view the obligation lightly."

"I suppose I just. . . wonder what a vampire father does." David glanced at him sidelong. "You can't exactly teach him to play catch or how to talk to women, so it's. . . what?"

"I could certainly teach him both those things, particularly the latter, if he found himself in need or desire of my help. Vampires love their children no less than humans love theirs. In most cases." Killian forced away the thought of _his_ own blood father, the man Emma was now striking out on her own in a desperate attempt to stop. "And like humans, we have our failures and our abusers and our manipulators. Supernatural power tends to magnify those flaws, but it never creates them. Nobody becomes a bad vampire unless they were a bad person first."

David looked briefly taken aback, as he had likely still been hanging onto the idea that while vampires were probably very nice people when it came to individuals, as a species they were colder or inferior or unable to understand deep feeling, less deserving or desiring of love and empathy and home. When in fact, as Killian had learned over and over, the danger of supernaturals came the most not from their inhumanity, but from their deep-rooted humanity, those most primal bundles of instincts and needs and pain. The change never artificially forced someone to become a monster. There was no moral component to it. It just gave them the ability to act on what had been latent within them, whether good or bad or neither, when the old rules and restrictions no longer applied. No wonder it was all mixed up, like a mirror dropped and shattered into a thousand pieces. Showing only parts, only fragments. Then again, he knew who had invented it in the first place, and for no heroic reason. Nimue's transgression in imprisoning Merlin, destroying Camelot, and turning the magic of the Book of the Dead to dark purposes had been ingrained into vampires from their beginning, and hung inescapably over them now, the ultimate question of whether a creature made from an evil root, even many branches down the line, could ever overcome it and turn to good. Killian wanted to think so, but he didn't know.

"Well," David said after a moment. "I'm not sure what I should call you."

"Just Killian will do, mate. Doesn't need to be any fancier than that. And you might not like or trust me much yet, but we are family now."

"I suppose." David didn't look to be rushing to invite him to any get-togethers, but Killian hadn't expected that in any case. "So. . . you and Emma? How long has that been going on?"

"If she comes back alive, I suppose we'll work out what exactly it is." Killian kept his eyes on the far wall. "Whatever we do become, it's as much up to her as it is to me."

David paused, then nodded. They turned back into motion, checking the other floors and levels of the museum in case Gold had put it in a less obvious exhibit to deter suspicion, but didn't see anything that looked like an unassuming bronze scale that was in fact an awesomely powerful and dangerous magical object. The museum was steadily emptying in preparation for closing, as Gold evidently did not want to have to blast a swath through the crowds if he did not have to (he was probably more worried about potential witnesses than collateral damage) and if he _was_ planning an attack, had scheduled it for the night. They had done their best to find out if anyone had gained unusual access to the collections, but nothing seriously seemed amiss, and no maniacally laughing vampire had thus been spotted, so he must not have come. Yet. If the scale was still here.

Realizing that they were going to have to stay in the building past closing hours, Killian towed David to an unobtrusive spot, mesmered the guards into walking straight past them as they made their final sweep to check for stragglers, and waited until the place had gone quiet. Once he was fairly sure they were not about to be nabbed by a late leaver, they stealthily made their way back to the Ancient Egypt exhibit. Killian was not concerned about he himself being caught on security camera, what with the fact of vampires not showing up on them, but it did strike him that if the footage showed David Nolan, respectable husband, father, and productive American citizen, skulduggering around the British Museum late at night, questions might be asked and problems created. As long as they didn't touch anything or trip any hidden alarms, hopefully nobody would have any reason to check.

They reached the Egypt section and swept it over one more time. Still nothing. Killian was unable to repress the growing conviction that they were in fact too late, that one of the four must have already stolen the scale and absconded with it, but if so, why not reveal themselves and make their offer to Emma? Unless that was happening at Gold's house right now, and he had let her walk into a trap. He fought down a surge of lacerating panic, the half-certain knowledge that he had failed her too and they were never going to see each other again. That kiss had tasted more than halfway like a goodbye, and he knew those bitterly well by now. Even as much as Emma insisted that Gold wouldn't kill her, that as the _universus_ she was protected by the fact of him needing her, it was doubtful whether she thought that equated to actually coming back.

Killian clenched his fists, reminding himself to keep it together. He gazed into the glass of the nearest display case, seeing no reflection, just that faint blur. Perversely fitting. Possibly a blessing. For bloody certain he wouldn't have been able to look himself in the eye all these years.

He shook his head, turning around and intending to rejoin David in the far gallery. But he hadn't gotten a step when the woman sitting on the bench in the corner, whom he hadn't seen or sensed at all even with every ability being an Old One could offer, rose to her feet. He hadn't seen her before, face to face, but nonetheless, he knew instantly who she was. Felt the room grow as cold as if the temperature had plunged thirty degrees at once, and, accordingly, froze in place.

"Good evening, Killian," Nimue said, and smiled. "Now that it's just you and me, I think it's more than time we talked."


	22. Chapter 22

"I don't know what you think you're going to offer me, love," Killian said, "but you can safely assume I'm not interested. Get the bloody hell out of here."

Nimue laughed aloud. "That's not going to work, you know. Aside from the fact that, as goes without saying, of _course_ you're interested. This charade of sneaking around the museum at night with an unwitting human accomplice is rather clever, in an amateur fashion, but we all know you have far more potential than that. Not that you seem to be making much use of it recently, aside from seducing the _universus._ That, now, that _was_ clever, and I don't bestow such praise lightly. Nobody will disturb us here. I can keep the human wandering in circles for hours, and anybody else getting anywhere near will suddenly recall urgent appointments and have to dash. Sit down, Killian. Make yourself comfortable. You'll want to hear me out."

"What? You honestly expect me to confide my plans and secrets to you, so you can rush back and spill them in Zelena and Arthur's ear? Maybe make it a bit more convenient for the three of you to slaughter us all? Wouldn't want you breaking a nail."

Nimue scoffed. "Those two idiots? I wouldn't share a country club membership with them, much less the key to true power. I string them along and feed them drips and drabs here and there, enough to keep them convinced of my sincerity and eager to assist me in uncovering more, but they're pawns, pure and simple. I tore down Camelot once to save the world from Blessed King Arthur and his noble knights; what makes you think I have any interest in raising it up again? Arthur has convinced himself that I do, because Arthur is very good at convincing himself of things which are eminently untrue, as you may have noticed. As for Zelena, she's pure chaotic selfishness, no overriding motive or grand plan other than to revenge herself on her sister, prove some sort of dim-witted point to Gold, and never have to obey another rule she doesn't like. Oh, and Emma, of course. She does want her dear daughter back very badly, for reasons that quite escape my comprehension. But then, I understand you've recently become a blood parent yourself, so perhaps you can shed some light on this tender attachment?"

"Cut to the bloody chase, witch." Killian stood tensely, ready to spring in an instant if she showed any signs of going after David, still obliviously casing the other gallery, as a method of forcing his hand. "Unless your grand plan is to stupefy me into submission with all your talking."

"Fearless." Nimue eyed him approvingly. "That's a character trait I do have quite a use for. You and I, we're not stupid. We've survived this long by realizing that when push comes to shove, we can and always will look out for ourselves first. If you're not feeling quite up to being allies with me, although I'm not sure why someone with _your_ past would feel comfortable throwing stones at glass houses, then let me propose a simpler arrangement. I use you to get what I want, you use me to get what you want. Everyone – well, we – profit and are happy, end of story."

"You have no idea what I want."

"Oh, don't I?" Nimue shrugged, adjusting the fall of her silken drape. At first glance, she looked like any other well-dressed young woman out for a night at dinner or the theater, but the complete blackness of her eyes and the points of her bared fangs badly belied the illusion. "Not Gold dead? Not a future with Emma, and a family with her and your son? Not a safe place and good care for your poor brother, not even to mention your sister – for all your bluster and banter, I don't think you'd care to actually see her die. Or Will Scarlet. Or these humans you've inexplicably brought into the fold. So many people you're trying to keep safe now, Killian. So unlike you. But I'm not unreasonable. I do understand love, and making sacrifices for it. And if you stay on the path you're currently on, you're going to lose all of it."

Killian turned away, fighting the lure and danger of her words with all his might, knowing that she must be lying somehow but unable to put his finger on it. He couldn't give in and help her achieve whatever dastardly designs she was sure to have set her mind to, but he was also unable to find the instant denial that he wanted. A voice in the back of his head whispered that he couldn't have everything, he'd always known that. . . but why, _why_ did he just have to resign himself to losing them, when he had been granted the unfathomable gift of a second chance? Merlin had offered nothing but hurt and riddles and suspicious motives, were they really going to save the world by hitching themselves to his wagon? If he could get his loved ones out. . . maybe play along for a bit, get Nimue to reveal more. . . make a decision later, when he knew just how bad it was. . . refusing her outright couldn't do much good at this stage. She'd just go find someone else. He could handle her for a bit. For intelligence purposes.

"Fine," he said tersely. "I'm listening."

Nimue's smile widened. She held out a hand to him, and he, with that old gentlemanly instinct, took it, escorting her out of the gallery and down the broad, circular marble steps at the centre of the museum, decanting into the empty atrium. They went to sit at the tables of the closed café, lit only by the emergency spotlight from above, as she arranged her skirt and folded her hands as if about to interview him for a position (and well, he supposed, she rather was). "I'm so glad you managed to be reasonable," she said. "This matter may seem complex, but at heart it's quite simple. Merlin's intention in establishing the _universus_ was to destroy me. Annul my power, cast me down, and reclaim the magic of the Book of the Dead that he claims I corrupted. But since that magic is responsible for my existence, and yours, and every other vampire you've ever known, that is no less a terrible murder than anything you imagine me capable of. Kill me, and you kill our entire species. At least, most of us. Younger vampires like your son and Lily Page would be safe, but anyone who had already exceeded a human lifespan would die instantly. You, your sister Regina – Gold, Arthur, and Zelena too, yes, which is why none of them would dare openly oppose me. Luckily, there is nobody in the world capable of killing me, so we don't need to take the threat too seriously. Nobody, that is, except one person."

Killian leaned back against the wall, feeling as if he'd just swallowed a bucket of ice. "And that would be Emma."

"Brilliant." Nimue pretended to applaud. "So you see how you might enter into this? You have formed, shall we say, an _attachment_ to the lady. You would be best positioned to keep her out of my way until I was finished with my plans, and at no cost whatsoever to you. You want to live, don't you? Of course you do. You're not the heroic-sacrifice type. This way you don't have to die, you don't have to give up your immortality or your power, you have a chance at a real future, _and_ it keeps your family together. I should add that it goes the other way as well. If Emma doestry to defeat me, she may well succeed, but she'd die in the effort. Surely you gleaned that from Merlin's unhelpful mumbling? For her own good, for your future, you have to keep her from doing it. Once I've managed my business, I'll reward you handsomely for it. You and your loved ones will never want for anything again."

Killian did not dare to meet her eyes, feeling his resolve to withstand her quickly crumbling. All he could come up with was, "Because the rest of the world will be dead, and we'll build a life on their bones and ashes? Is that what you're offering?"

"Gracious, no." Nimue looked at him oddly. "I never said anything about killing everyone. That sort of thing is Gold's line of work, not mine. I intend my coup to be as bloodless as possible. Indeed, the only person who really _has_ to die is Merlin, and he's not your favorite person, is he? So cryptic and slippery and no real use at all? Causing the maximum amount of pain for the minimum amount of help? I learned that the hard way, long ago. As I said, Killian, you're a smart man. You're not deceived by his lies and evasions. Take a stand. Kill him."

"I. . . he. . . I can't. . . I won't. . ."

"Why on earth not?" Nimue reached across the table and laid her hand on his. "You're good at killing. We both know this. Just one more, and then everyone you love is safe, forever. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want that, and I'll know you're lying."

His skin felt cold and shriveled under her touch. He had a brief flash of memory: a rainy night in London, a narrow, muddy lane, stalking the opium-addled wolf that had just emerged from a den, red-glass lamp shining over the door. Winding deeper and deeper into the maze of dark streets, breathing the reek of the Thames and burning coal and the smoke of the factories, until he finally caught his prey in the docklands where he did most of his hunting. The wolf a harmless old addict, barely able to raise a paw in his own defense, blubbering for mercy in a way he found most undignified. Tore him apart nonetheless, drank his hot red blood, whispered, _"That was for my brother, you son of a bitch,"_ and threw the dismembered corpse into the river; the water could scarcely get much fouler. He didn't even remember what year. 1850, 1860? Sometime in that long blur of rage and violence and despair. _Just one more kill._

"What about Emma?" He felt dazed, drugged. Vaguely he wondered if she was using the mesmer on him; as an Old One, there were very few vampires strong enough to physically or psychically overwhelm him, but she would definitely be one. Then again, perhaps that was just the vain hope that he wasn't this weak, wasn't giving in over the course of five minutes alone with her, but he knew himself better than that. He _was_ weak, he always had been. "How do I know that once you're done with whatever you bloody want, you won't just kill her to make sure you'll never be threatened again?"

"Because once Merlin's dead, Emma loses all her power." Nimue looked at him almost pityingly, as if this was so blindingly obvious as to beggar explanation. "You've already seen that she only gets it by feeding on him. As long as he's alive, she's the greatest pawn in his game. Kill him, and she's free of a destiny she never wanted and isn't prepared for. Then I don't have to kill her, because she's no threat. As I said. You use me, I use you. We don't have to trust each other, we don't have to like each other, we don't have to be anything more than business partners making a solid investment in our future. Gold, Zelena, and Arthur all die. Your family is saved. All you have to do is keep Emma out of any rash decisions or rushes to action, and kill a man you don't like and who you _know_ is playing his own game. There's no downside."

No. There wasn't. That was why he was so dangerously close to agreeing, to buckling under. Even knowing that what looked too good to be true always was. It was true that Emma seemed none too comfortable in her _universus_ role, wanted to be rid of it, didn't know why anyone in their right mind would have chosen her for the job. . . all his own frustration at Merlin's constant evasion and flim-flammery. . . _you're good at killing. . . just one more. . ._

"You know," Nimue said, "I don't have all night. Your decision, please."

Another memory. This one of a much more recent vintage, indeed from earlier that evening. Liam kneeling in front of him, clutching his hands, raw with emotion. _Never forgive you? After what_ I've _done? Gold wasn't always mesmering me, you know. Not even he could keep up that level of power and control forever, especially when he was weaker. He convinced me too. Had me believing it was the only way, I had to help him, I had to do this for him, and I did._

He had to save Liam, though. Emma. Henry. Will. Regina. Even David and Mary Margaret. They'd forgive him, wouldn't they, if they saw he was dedicated to protecting them? Removed all the threats hounding them from every side, in one fell swoop? She was lying, she had to be lying somehow, but as long as there was some kernel of truth in there somewhere, as long as she could give him what she said. . . he felt as if he was clinging to a cliff by the very edge of his fingers, and it would be so much better, so much easier, to let go and fall into the dark water below. All their efforts to do this the right way and play by the rules had gotten them bloody nowhere. They still didn't know where the Osiris scale was, how exactly it was used, if everything they had sacrificed was worth it, if Merlin could be trusted, if they could ever free Liam from Gold's lurking menace, how to kill him if the scale didn't work, what powers Emma had, what the _Liber incarcerati_ really did, or nearly anything else. You were only a pawn if you didn't know you were being used. Perhaps it was time to play on a more powerful board.

Slowly, Killian lifted his head. Met her eyes, those deep orbits of pure black, felt them pulling him like the maw of the maelstrom, begging him to let go and drown his soul in it. Surely she could sense her victory, but she waited, determined to have him cross the bridge to her first. So she, and he, could be quite sure there was no turning back.

"Very well, love," he said hoarsely. "You have a deal."

* * *

For the dread hideout of a dangerous vampire dark lord, Emma had been expecting his townhouse to be harder to find. There was certainly some kind of resistance she could feel in the air and on the back of her neck, warning her not to be stupid and get out of here while she still could, which was par for the course when approaching the lair of something a) supernatural and b) higher than you on the food chain, but with the mission in mind, she bravely (or stupidly) ignored it. Will kept close on her heels, casting suspicious looks at perfectly ordinary passersby, as they turned down the posh Chelsea street bedecked with the residences of the rich and famous, elegant mansions set back behind gates and security systems with luxury cars parked outside. They probably looked much too poor to be gallivanting around in this part of town, so they'd have to make it quick before some concerned millionaire telephoned the Met to report potential burglars. Not that human police would be much of a deterrence, of course, but it would take up time and slow them down, and that was counterproductive.

Emma slowed, counting off house numbers as they passed, until they reached the sumptuous estate on the corner, walled with trees on three sides and front door far removed from the hoi polloi by means of a long front walk, broad brick steps, and a cast-iron fence higher than her head. It didn't have a NO VISITORS KEEP OUT sign posted on every available surface, but the message was clear nonetheless, and she surveyed it up and down with a brief flutter of apprehension, before turning to Will. "Go wait at the end of the street. I'm sure you can find a way to keep yourself from being noticed – make a few circuits of the nearby blocks, whatever. If I'm not back by midnight, go back to Killian's place and warn the others. Don't come after me. Just. . . run."

"You think runnin' anywhere will be far enough away from a power-mad arsehole like that? And as if I'd just leave you to your fate? Killian would murder me straight up! Bare hands!"

"I don't think so. And what good does it do us, or him, if you get killed too? I know the risk I'm running. I'm not putting anyone else in the crossfire if I can help it. Now listen to me. Go."

Will remained stubbornly pat a few seconds longer, before slowly revolving on the spot and retreating down the sidewalk, not without several glances over his shoulder at her. She was left to feel a sudden, deep admiration for him. Will might be happily moved on in a new relationship and showing not a single hint of jealousy or resentment for Killian doing the same, but it was plain he was still very much in love with him, and a lesser individual could have taken the opportunity to leave her in danger, or be happy to let her face it alone. Instead, Will had come with her to deal with the most powerful vampire alive, the vampire who had been responsible for some of the worst crises of the supernatural world, determined to protect her and worrying what Killian would think if he let her come to any kind of harm. Emma herself, now that she had gotten to know Will a little better, didn't view him as a threat to what was slowly growing between her and Killian, but she remembered her uncertainty and tinges of jealousy over him in the past, the way she was aware that they had known each other, loved each other, and trusted each other far longer than she could hope to match, and had to keep consciously reminding herself of the fact that Killian had chosen her. She had to trust that she wasn't going to suddenly lose him overnight. He'd fought to stay with her, to help her, and quite a bit more than that as well. He wouldn't compromise that now. He wouldn't.

Emma took a deep breath, clenching her fists and squaring her shoulders. She opened the gate, trotted up the walk, and reached the forbidding front door with its gargoyle bronze knocker. Lifting it, she paused an instant longer, then let it fall with a deep booming thud.

For a long moment, there was no answer, indeed long enough to make her wonder if ding-dong-ditching was an acceptable option in this circumstance. Then the door cracked open, she braced herself for possible pyrotechnics or a gust of flame, but neither obtained. A voice with no apparent source or location (Gold's disembodied robot butler?) said, "Come in."

Every instinct on high alert, Emma gingerly lifted a foot, put it over the threshold, and upon the occasion of her not being violently ejected, ventured the other. She doubted Gold invited any old random visitors in, unless he then saved them for snacktime and casked their corpses in amontillado in the basement. Forcing that particularly morbid thought aside, she strode as confidently as she could down the dark hallway, having a sense that the unlit light fixtures draped from the ceiling had quivered their crystal droplets ever so slightly as she passed. It was still the middle of the day, but Gold was old enough, and had done enough meddling and sorcery with the _Liber,_ that that was probably no issue at all to him anymore. Of course he wouldn't be wasting precious plotting time in sleeping, especially knowing that so many enemies were so close at hand.

The hall forked into two at the back of the house, one leading up a narrow stairway to the second floor and the other running on into a much older section. If Gold had lived at this same spot since the Tudor era, he must have of necessity had to rebuild it periodically (which unlucky contractor got stuck with the job of renovating the Dark Lord's bathroom, she wondered?) and this part looked as if it might be from the original, with a low, beamed ceiling, plastered walls, a creaking floor, and dim diamonded-glass windows that let in almost no light. She made it to the heavy mahogany door at the end, paused once more, and knocked.

This time, it was opened in person. Gold stood on the far side, face half shadowed, impeccably dressed in his usual sharp suit, collar starched to points and a golden pin clipping his tie. Upon regarding her, he displayed no signs of surprise whatsoever, only a faint smile. "Miss Swan. I thought I might be seeing you. Come alone, have you?"

"Yes," Emma said. "We won't be disturbed."

" _Mirabile visu."_ Gold waved a hand. "Well then, dearie. Let's have a nice chat."

Emma paused, then stepped inside and shut the door. The room looked to be part study, part library, part junk storage, and part sorcerer's aerie, littered to every side with crammed shelves, old leather-bound books, stacks of paper and parchment written in something that was probably blood, racks of half-burnt candles (fire hazard or not, electric lights clearly did not go with the aesthetic) and misshapen weird things pickled in glass jars, all of which she would prefer not to examine in closer detail. It smelled like must and dust and something stronger, indefinable, alluring, that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She had the oddest sense that someone had struck a bell, just before she walked in, and the sound was still lingering just at the edge of hearing, ringing faintly on and on. And sitting on the desk, stuck in a puddle of congealing black wax, bronze arms swinging, was a. . .

. . . scale.

Gold must have heard her sharp intake of breath, as hard as she tried to disguise it, because he turned quickly to see what she was staring at, then smiled. "Yes," he said. "That's it. It was almost depressingly easy to get hold of. I'd have preferred more of a fight, frankly. Things being _too_ simple make me suspicious. Perhaps it's genuinely true that the British Museum never knew it was anything other than a culturally interesting but otherwise useless bit of antique Egyptian miscellanea, but still. Something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thank you." No way she was voluntarily entering his evil hideout and then giving him a chance to slip something in her glass. Ordinary drugs might not work on a vampire the same way, but she didn't doubt he'd come up with alternatives.

"Exactly how uncouth do you think I am?" A fang flashed in a smile, as he had evidently anticipated her misgivings. "Not to mention, if I wanted to poison, bamboozle, or otherwise cause you distress, Miss Swan, there are a thousand less obvious ways I would select to do it. This is a lovely vintage, as well. Extremely rare, nothing you'll have tasted before. The last bottle of my Torquemada."

That name sounded vaguely familiar to Emma, but she wasn't sure why. Seeing her confusion, Gold went on, "Tomás de Torquemada, Grand Inquisitor of Spain in the fifteenth century. He died two years before I was made a vampire, and his blood was preserved and bottled. It's become something of a delicacy among discerning connoisseurs."

"What?" Emma was disgusted. "Drink the blood of the head of the Inquisition? What is he, a role model for you?"

"Far from it." Gold had that same sleek, disconnected way of moving as Arthur, in one place at one moment and somewhere else entirely the next, not quite subject to the same laws of physics, even accelerated ones, that governed other supernaturals. "The Inquisition was as ruthless in attacking our kind as they were Jews, Marranos, Moors, and common sense in general. Their eventual defeat and dismantlement, and resulting black mark in the history books, was a victory for all of us. I purchased two bottles of the stuff, at exorbitant expense, to rub salt in the wound, if you will. For a bitter, murderous old bigot, his blood is quite delicious. Perhaps it's the age; it works similarly to the process for wine. Perhaps it's the taste of victory. Perhaps it's showing how very little you know about our past, our present, or our future, Miss Swan, and what you _should_ know before proceeding. Take your pick. Care for some?"

She swallowed heavily. "No."

"More for me, then." Gold removed a crystal decanter half-filled with some dark scarlet liquid, unscrewed the top, and splashed it thickly into a glass. He took a slow, gourmand sip, savoring it, then set it down atop a pile of papers. Taking a seat in his own worn green-backed chair, he directed her to another one, almost invisible beneath its load of books. She moved them onto the floor and sat stiffly, waiting for the jaws of the trap to close in some shape or form and mind racing as to what to do when it did. He had the scale here – what did that mean for Killian and David at the British Museum? They were safe, weren't they? And whatever Regina and Mary Margaret had found at Arthur's place – though it might not matter if Gold coerced or cajoled her into doing his bidding now – she still had to agree, he couldn't mesmer her into it, he didn't have any blackmail pawns at hand, but she would be very unwise to assume he couldn't acquire them in a hurry if the situation called for it –

"You're thinking very loudly, dearie," Gold observed, taking another sip. "How about we start off with a civilized conversation, and then come up with our plans from there?"

Emma gripped the carved arms of the chair until her knuckles went white. "Maybe I'm curious," she said after a moment. "About you, about. . . all this. Supposed to have died a hundred years ago, and yet here you are, more powerful than ever, dragging me into it. If I'm going to help you, I want a few answers first. Why aren't you dead? Why are you even doing this?"

"Dangerous questions, to be sure. Though I suppose not wholly unwarranted." Gold eyed her over the rim of his glass. "As for why I am not dead, I will say that our mutual. . . friend, Killian Jones, came closer to killing me than anyone ever has. Indeed, it was only luck that saved me in that instance. Luck, and the love of my wife and son. Belle found me, and it was Baelfire who, after certain spells were performed to make him assume my appearance, agreed to die for me. He had already been injured in the course of my battle with Jones, and once my damage was transferred to him, it was mortal. I didn't want him to do it, but he insisted. That he be allowed to take it on and save my life." A dark shadow passed over Gold's face; his tone was devoid of any mockery or gloating. It was genuinely sad, and for a moment, Emma almost did feel sorry for him. "He was the one who died there, staked to that St. Paul's roof, the one who everyone believed to be me. I was taken away, grossly wounded and weak, by Belle, and nursed slowly back to health, but with very little of my previous powers. It took time and effort to regain them, but I was still unable to defend her when Zelena attacked us one night and killed her. She's always harbored a twisted obsession with me. I daresay she thought that with Belle dead, I would be induced to marry her instead, my own blood daughter." A look of disgust twisted Gold's face. "You and I can understand and share the miseries she has done to both of us, at least."

"I see." Emma recalled Regina mentioning that Zelena had killed Gold's wife, but given the fact that Regina had also later told her Gold's manipulative agenda in making Zelena into a vampire in the first place, this was definitely a monster he had created himself. "Didn't you guess something like that might happen when you turned her?"

Gold shrugged. "Zelena was a means to an end," he said. "If I wanted done what needed to be done, I had to make her. Otherwise I risked missing out on the _universus –_ and given the fact that they are now sitting across from me, I have to conclude I made the right decision. As I said, Miss Swan. I've been waiting a very long time for you. Nor am I the complete monster you think I am. That tends to happen, when you hear only one side of the story."

"It's the hell of a story," Emma said flatly. "I'm not sure I need to hear any justifications as to why you kept Liam Jones a slave and an animal for almost three hundred years, just to name the first thing that comes to mind. I'm sure you had reasons. I'm sure they made sense to you. It doesn't make them right, and it doesn't make me feel sorry for you."

"I don't feel sorry for me either, if it helps." Gold leaned back in his chair. "I know exactly what kind of man I am. There was a brief period after my rescue, after I'd lost Baelfire and while Belle was nursing me back to health, where I did consider changing my ways and living a virtuous life. Honoring his sacrifice. But then, well. . . I lost Belle too, and even before that, I'd realized it had no interest or allure for me. Everyone these days talks about being whatever you want to be. It so happens I know exactly what I want. Such certainty should be celebrated, don't you think? Not derided?"

"When what you want involves this kind of damage? No."

"What damage? What have supernaturals done to humans that they haven't already done to themselves, and a thousand times over? I don't need to go down the list. Are we not at this moment – well, I am – drinking the blood of a man who caused thousands more deaths than I ever did, in the name of religious purity? At least I have the decency to be honest about the reason for my crimes. Do you want to know how many werewolves Killian Jones killed? One hundred and eighty-three. In one century. The overall tally must be close to half a thousand."

"Killed them because of what you did to his brother," Emma said levelly. "I'm not defending it or condoning it in any way. He was responsible for his actions, but let's not pretend you were completely blameless. And besides, he's changed. You haven't."

"Oh, has he?" Gold raised a politely and utterly dubious eyebrow. "Wouldn't just as quickly kill again, if someone dangled the opportunity and the right motivation in his face? Take it from me, Miss Swan. People like him and I – we never change. We pretend and we adapt and we manipulate, but we don't change. Old dog, new tricks, etc etc. If you want to delude yourself about Jones, that's your lookout, but you'll have no right to come crying to me, or anyone, when you get your heart broken. It would be much tidier to skip those tedious preliminaries, assume that he has already betrayed you as he is bound to do, and get on with it. After all, we do have the scale here. Don't you want to know what it does?"

"You've figured it out?" Emma kept her tone light and neutral. She was rattled, but wasn't about to let on. "Not afraid you'll be thrown to a river of crocodiles to have your soul devoured?"

"Not something I lose much sleep over, no." Gold shrugged. "Indeed, I think I've mostly cracked it. You see, my problem is that as long as Nimue is alive, I can't hold full power. She is the mother of our kind, the originator of the species, and the original spell from the Book of the Dead, the one that gave all of us life, resides in her. If someone killed her, the rest of us would die. Besides, nobody _can_ kill her. Except for one person."

Emma felt an overwhelming urge to get up and run out of the house, but with an almighty effort of will, remained in place. "Me."

"Copped to it, did you? But it's more complicated. That spark, that seed of life, of vampire existence, that dwells in Nimue can be transferred. Likewise, only one other vampire can hold it. That's why you're called the _universus,_ see? The universal, the all, the whole. Once the power is transferred from Nimue to you, she can be killed. And you, Miss Swan, take her place."

"Working for you?" Emma stared him down. "That's the punchline, I imagine? After she dies and I've absorbed all her power, I use it to help you achieve world domination?"

"World domination tends to backfire," Gold said. "And it's always the endgame of your average garden-variety supervillain, hence why it rarely works. I intend to play my cards much more carefully. But yes, that's the gist of it. You work with me, and we do great things together."

"You and I have a very different definition of that word."

"Your point of view will change over time, trust me. And I can be generous. Very generous." He leaned forward, gaze intent on her. "Once we get hold of Nimue, the procedure is fairly simple. You'll use the scale and strip her of her power, then take it into yourself. Then you kill her."

"Oh, sure," Emma said. "Sounds as simple as building a nuclear reactor from scratch."

"Not in the least, I assure you. It'll be intuitive. You were made to do this, you know. From the moment Zelena turned you, everything has been leading you toward this. I do hate to sound clichéd, but it _is_ your destiny. You have a chance to become the new mother of vampires, the most powerful of us all, and there is so much more I can teach you. Never again that lost little girl who didn't matter. Quite frankly, you'd be a fool to throw it away."

"You already said the ritual requires you to sacrifice your entire bloodline. That's pretty much my whole family. Do you really think I'll be happy to sit back and watch them all be killed?"

"No," Gold said genially. "Not in the least. But you'll get over it."

"You son of a – "

"I'm not mocking you, dearie. I'm speaking from experience." He looked up at her again. "When I lost Baelfire and Belle, I thought there could be no worse pain in the world. I wanted to die myself, rather than go on. But I did, and I learned better, and I healed, and I became stronger. So will you. Loved ones are a temporary thing, a fleeting attachment. Nice when you do have them, but not the end of the world when they're gone. Against everything you stand to gain, they're worth very little. I know it's difficult to think of now. But you _will_ thank me later."

"You really are a monster." Emma felt punched, breathless, as if he'd taken her in hand, crumpled her like scrap paper, and thrown her aside. "You can't make me do it."

"Indeed," Gold agreed. "I can't. But we do know I can provide all sorts of inducements to your decision, Miss Swan, if that's really what you want. Judging by you coming to me first, alone, I'm guessing it's not."

Emma didn't answer. She didn't know how to defy him and didn't know if she could, tensed on the edge of her seat, about to spring if he so much as flicked an eyelash the wrong way. But the thought remained pure and perfectly clear in her head that she was not giving in, that it was not even remotely an option, and as Gold turned to pick up his glass of blood, she spotted her briefest sliver of chance. Without a sound, she leapt.

He turned around an instant too late, and she hit him like a ton of bricks, spilling them into the room's sea of books, rolling around and scrabbling, hissing and snarling. He was very fast and very strong, but she was still riding high on the effects of her feed on Merlin, and she could nearly match him. He flung out a hand – some massive invisible force coruscated across the room, buckling the beams– but she threw up an arm and blocked it, feeling it deflect off her like a punch and splatter into the wall. She returned fire just as he did the same, and the tangled threads of power exploded in midair with a sound like a bomb and a burning white spray of sparks. As she was falling, she twisted around, grabbed the scale off his desk, and kicked over the largest candelabra, directly onto the nearest pile of dry paper.

Gold yelled, diving to put them out, as she held onto the scale with one hand and shot another blast at him with the other, sending him rolling. He did a somersault and came up firing, hard enough to throw her into the wall, but she didn't let go. The flames were spreading quickly through the study, leaping up in another place as fast as he could snuff them in one, and the acrid sting of smoke burned in her throat. Clutching the scale to her chest with both arms, she lowered her head, slammed the door open with her shoulder, and sprinted down the hall beyond, the study now burning like the mouth of hell at her back. She could just hear him yelling, swearing indistinctly, over the crackle and roar, but didn't dare look back. Fire couldn't kill him – or could it? Surely even he could not be completely impervious to being trapped in an inferno?

She raced through the house, burst out the front door, and pelted down the steps, cool, damp air slapping her hot, sooty face. She couldn't sprint like this through Chelsea without attracting attention, but couldn't slow either, reaching the end of the block and looking around for –

The only warning was a whoosh and a hiss, and then the next instant, something knocked her headlong, the scale clattering out of her hands as she frantically groped for it. All she could get a glimpse of was a black-eyed, fang-bared fiend – another vampire, whether one of Gold's coven, a remnant of the pack that had chased her on her last visit here out for revenge for her murder of his fellows, or one of Arthur's minions was impossible to say. She felt a burning pain in her neck as he bit her, wrenching and tearing, slamming her head down into the concrete with enough force that if she had been human, it definitely would have shattered her skull. Even not, she couldn't see straight, couldn't feel anything except the biting, she was going to die, going to –

Then she heard a snarl, the sound of a violent impact, and the next instant, the vampire had been knocked off her, rolling in the street, as an extremely angry werewolf leapt after it. It was smallish but strong and compactly built, golden eyes blazing and inch-long claws raking tracks in her assailant's dead white flesh, ripping and tearing, as she sat up in a daze, touching the wet spot of blood on her head. She stared at them fighting for another hypnotized instant, before remembering the scale and diving to retrieve it, somewhat battered but intact, from the sidewalk. It was late in the afternoon, but it wasn't dark – if someone looked outside and saw this –

That, however, appeared to be the last thing that Will Scarlet had time for. With a snarl, he bit through the vampire's thigh with a crack of breaking bone, and it went down hard, flailing. He darted in and bit it again in the throat, gore spraying his muzzle, and this time it didn't get up. Then he stepped away from its still-twitching corpse, cocked his head at her, and ran.

Emma didn't waste time demurring. She ran after him, hearing sirens in the distance; someone must have seen Gold's house on fire and phoned the fire brigade. They kept running until she spotted trees and faux-Roman colonnades ahead, and they dashed through the gate and into Brompton Cemetery, one of London's oldest and most distinguished burying-grounds, headstones and crosses and looming stone tombs crowded together among thick grass and overgrown greenery. They kept running through it and to a larger mausoleum on the outer edge, where Will pushed a stone aside with his nose to reveal a set of narrow steps descending underground. Before Emma could ask if they were climbing into an actual coffin for sanctuary, he dashed down it, she decided not to be left up here alone in case more pursuit was on the way, and, pulling the stone back into place, plunged after him.

The tunnel was quite a bit deeper than she anticipated. She followed Will's churning back legs and the sweep of his furry tail, blinking hard as even her vampire vision struggled to penetrate the darkness, dirt sifting from the berm and unseen roots snagging at her arms and ankles. Some of the adrenaline was wearing off, but she kept on running, until they emerged in a small subterranean chamber, just high enough for her to stand upright, with faint light piercing through the air holes in the ceiling. Looking up, she estimated they were maybe ten or fifteen feet down, the holes well hidden among greenery, some kind of hiding place that wolves must have used for a long time. Only wolves, she prayed.

Will, gasping, shifted back into his human form, blood running heavily down his face from a gash near his hairline, and she stared. "You're hurt. Let me see that."

"Fine. I'm fine. Had to get the bugger off you, didn't I?" He managed a lopsided grin, even as she forced him to sit, tore a piece off her shirt, and tried to soak up the blood. "Take it your little social call was. . . eventful?"

"Yeah." Emma concentrated on the work, having to tear off another swatch of fabric as the first one quickly turned red. She glanced at the scale, sitting innocuously where she'd dropped it, hardly seeming worth such trouble and danger. Gold _would_ be coming after them, bent on revenge for her destroying all his books and notes and magical grotesqueries, and she barely bit back a moan of terror. Couldn't be sure if they could risk returning to Russell Square, or if that would lead him directly to the rest of the family. Obviously they couldn't stay down this hole forever, either, but she still had to face this first. "Th-thank you."

"Don't mention it." Will winced as she applied harder pressure. "Didn't come along to be a spectator, you know."

"I know." Emma's hands were shaking, and she clenched them hard. "That's still a long way from fighting a murderous vampire for me."

"Hey." He looked up at her, brown eyes intent despite the blood crusted around them. "Good for a bloke to have an adventure every now and then. Besides, as I said. Didn't fancy explaining that to Killian."

She was silent for several moments, focused on slowing the bleeding. Once she had satisfied herself that while the wound was deep and ugly, it wasn't immediately life-threatening, she tried licking it closed, the way she would with a post-feed bite wound. Will squirmed, indicating that it either tickled or hurt (possibly both) but with some effort, she got it reduced to a livid red line across his temple, as if someone had attempted to give him an amateur lobotomy. He touched it gingerly, and when it didn't immediately start bleeding again, said, "Think that'll do me for now. Thanks, love."

"Don't mention it." Emma sat down heavily next to him, as the shock was definitely starting to set in. She felt cold and leaden, observing everything at a slight remove from her own head, someone looking down at the ground below with a telescope. It wasn't any of her business, but she could hear Gold telling her that Killian had murdered a hundred and eighty-three werewolves in one century alone, and she couldn't hold back. "Will, you. . . you know, don't you? About Killian's past?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Aye, I know. Not all the details, but enough. Why? What did that bastard say to you?"

"Nothing I didn't already know." Emma looked down at her bloody hands. "Just about the werewolves. How many of them."

"Ah." Will's face was cast in shadow by the thin flints of light from above, so it was hard to make out his precise expression. "Knowing in the abstract and hearing the actual reality are different things, eh? Look, love. Killian was a shit person for a long time, and that's putting it mildly. There are still plenty of Tails today who'd like to stake him for what he done, and me alongside him for giving aid and succor to the enemy. I can't say I ever expected or wanted to care for someone like that either, when we first met. But we were both in a bad place, and we clung. By the time I learned everything about who he had been and what he'd done. . . it was hard, I can't lie. But he wasn't just a faceless werewolf killer by then. He was Killian. There's a difference, you know? And he hadn't killed a wolf in over sixty years when we met. Wasn't as if he was popping out to do it on the weekend while I looked the other way. And he never stopped tormenting himself over it. When he told me about it, he wanted me to kill him. Begged me to. Thought it was the only proper punishment."

Emma didn't know what to say to that. At last, stating the obvious, she said, "You didn't."

"No." Will smiled faintly. "Not that kind of bloke. Not that I wasn't right pissed at him, mind. Ripped him a new one a bit, for bein' a wanker. But in the end, he mattered more to me than the past. More than other people I'd never known. More than things a lifetime ago that left him scarred for good. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was evil, but it was the choice I made."

Again, Emma didn't answer immediately. Then she said, "You love him very much. Don't you."

"He's the love of me life." Will didn't look at her. "But sometimes you love people you know you're never meant to be with. I can keep him from drowning through the worst times, and he can do the same for me. But we can't build something new. We can't make a future, start fresh the way he really needs to. Once the storm stops, once we wash up on the beach, you have to take him from there. I've done my bit. It's time for yours."

"Will. . ." Her chest felt raw and tender, scraped and stinging. "Will, I'm sorry."

"Why?" At that he did glance at her, with a slight, wry smile. "I'm not angry about it. It's not as if you're takin' something from me that doesn't belong to you. He _does_ belong to you, anyone with eyes in their head can see it. It'd be bloody selfish of me to keep him stuck down in the 'barely surviving' place, if he can move on at last. I want that for him, more than anything. Took me a while, but I did it. Now it's time he does the same."

Emma just looked at him. Then at last, she leaned in and lightly kissed his cheek, and they sat in silence as the light slipped away, turned grey and then black, until it must be full night above. Rousing herself, she said, "Do you think we should dare to get back to Russell Square?"

"Better 'n squatting down here." Will grimaced. "If we're careful, we should make it. Come on."

With that, muffling a groan, he got up, and so did she, scooping the scale safely into her jacket and zipping it firmly against her body. They picked their way through the tunnel until it sloped upward into the steps, climbing them on all fours, and pushing the stone aside at the top. Traffic hummed distantly on the road beyond, city lights visible through the trees, but the sirens had stopped. There was still a distinct tinge of smoke in the air, strong to their supernatural senses, though a human might not have noticed it, and Will looked both ways across the dark cemetery before he replaced the stone. "Think we're safe. C'mon."

They darted quickly across the plots, trying not to tread on any of the fresher-looking graves, and ducked into the colonnade, then out the far side. They would make faster time with Will in wolf shape, but as it was still mid-evening with plenty of people out, they for obvious reasons elected to avoid that option, heading up through Kensington. They jumped on the Tube at Hyde Park Corner, as they had been through enough exertion and did not want to subject themselves to any more if they could avoid it, and reached Russell Square shortly thereafter. After one more check by both of them to ensure no ambushes were lurking in the vicinity, they trudged up the steps of Killian's house, Will let them in, and they shut the door, sagging with relief. It had been the absolute hell of a venture, but at least they were intact, _and_ they had the scale, as well as hopefully dealing a blow of some severity to Gold. They advanced down the hall to the kitchen, pushed the door open, and collapsed into chairs.

A few minutes later, footfalls padded down the corridor, and Liam stuck his head in, surprised but relieved to see them. It was followed by an exclamation at their less than salubrious state, and Emma got up to find the bathroom and take the opportunity to treat herself to a long, hot shower, the water rinsing absolutely black down the drain as she scrubbed and scrubbed. When she felt marginally less like a chimney-sweep extra from _Mary Poppins,_ she returned to the kitchen to find Will concluding the debrief on their adventures, and Liam listening with a frown. Something struck Emma just then, and she said, "Are we the first ones back? Has anyone else checked in?"

"Not yet." If there was worry in Liam's voice, he masked it well. "They're probably fine. Though after hearing what you went through, I'm less sure about that than I would be."

"You don't think Gold's going to show up here?" Emma tried to sound as offhand as she could. "Even if he did. . . he wouldn't be able to get in, would he?"

"We don't know what he can do. The scale is here, so are you, and so am I." Liam closed his eyes briefly, fighting off a surge of old fear. "He might think it worth the risk."

This was not the most comforting utterance in the world, and Emma and Will busied themselves pretending to cook, or at least Will did; Liam seemed to have stocked up on regular food for the benefit of the wolves and the humans, and Emma couldn't blame him for being starving after being put through the wringer. She was just about to ask Liam if there was somewhere else she could go, anything he could suggest as a hideout for her away from the others, when they heard the door opening, and a few moments later, Regina and Mary Margaret appeared, looking ruffled. Apparently they too had had an eventful day of reconnaissance, though with somewhat less running for their lives involved, and reported that while Arthur was indeed in residence at his mansion, and had even appeared to accept Regina back as an ally, they were quite skeptical of the intelligence he had fed them. He seemed to be testing or trapping them, possibly trying to get them to make a hasty move and blow their cover, and they didn't think anything they had gleaned today was worth following up on. There had been no sign of Zelena, but then, there wouldn't be. Arthur was not about to risk having his entire house of cards come tumbling down by the Green Monster making an inopportune appearance, and would have kept her safely out of the way for the course of his dealings. Regina promised to return tomorrow night if she had to, but upon discovering that Emma had retrieved the scale and possibly burned down Gold's house to boot, her jaw dropped. "What? If that's the case, we have no time to waste. You figure out how to use that thing, and we end this! No more of the cloak and dagger business!"

"It's not that easy." With that, Emma explained what Gold had told her about how Nimue couldn't be killed without destroying all vampires everywhere, how the only person that could kill her at all was Emma, and how they had to transfer that spark, that original spell of existence, from the former to the latter by means of instructions that basically amounted to "close your eyes and wing it." This also meant, of course, finding Nimue and overpowering her long enough to allow it to happen, which seemed an iffy prospect at best, and while not being sure that they weren't doing exactly what Gold wanted. "So," she finished. "We'd have to make a choice."

Regina looked eminently and violently displeased at this, but couldn't immediately come up with an answer. It was Mary Margaret who spoke. "Should Killian and David be back by now? Especially if the scale's here? Or do you think they got sidetracked?"

They exchanged glances. It did seem rather late for their return, and Emma pulled out her phone, checking to see if she'd somehow missed a message, which would have been excusable in the commotion. She hadn't, and she glanced at Will. "Call him?"

Will fished around for his own phone and hit Killian's number, but they then heard it trilling on the counter; he had left it behind. They sat for a moment longer, until Emma got to her feet. "The British Museum is just down the road. Let's go check on them, tell them to come back."

"I'm going with you," Liam said. "Just in case."

"I'm sure it's. . ." Emma considered the events of the evening to date, and changed her mind. "All right."

"Do you want me too?" Will offered. "Extra?"

"You still have a bad head wound. Sit tight. And I'm just going to a museum, not to a battlefield. I don't need an entire battalion. We'll be right back."

With that, Emma got to her feet as Liam did the same, and they headed down the hall, opening the front door and stepping out into the night. It was only a minute's walk up to the back entrance of the museum, which was closed, and she felt a faint unease slither down her spine, unable to think why they would have stayed late unless something had come up. Had Gold made it out of his burning house and gone here instead, hoping to collect some leverage? Or –

Emma stood tensely, shifting from foot to foot, as Liam jerked the locked gate open with only a moderate effort, then jiggered the door with casual skill that she would probably rather not know about. He must have performed numerous smash and grabs for Gold before in other sensitive locations, and they stepped into the quiet foyer without any alarms blaring to announce the presence of intruders. They headed up the stairs to the main floor, looking from side to side, but didn't see anyone. All was silent and shut down.

"Hello?" Liam called, voice echoing. "Killian? David? Hello?"

Still no answer, and they started up the stairs, motion-activated floodlights switching on as they passed. At the top, they headed into the display gallery, glancing warily from side to side. There was probably supposed to be a night watchman or three, considering the net worth of this building and its contents, but they had mysteriously gone absent as well, which raised Emma's hackles. Then they crossed into the next room, saw someone sitting on a bench with their back to her, and she broke into a run. "Hey. Hey!"

The person didn't turn around until she touched his shoulder, and with a shock, she saw it was David Nolan. He looked confused to see her, blinking as if he couldn't quite place her, until he finally said, "Em. . . Emma? What. . . what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" His eyes had that particular glazed, staring look that indicated mesmer, that something – someone – had been controlling him. This was very, extremely not good. "David, what the hell happened? Where's Killian?"

"I don't. . ." David rubbed his face. "I'm not sure. How long have I been here?"

"A while." Emma tried to keep her voice level. "Do you remember anything?"

"Not much. The last thing I knew, Killian and I were looking for the scale, going back through the building after it closed. We didn't find it, we were double checking – "

"It's not here," Emma interrupted. "So you wouldn't have. Anything else?"

"I thought I heard someone say something." David screwed up his face. "Another voice, I thought it was a woman's. But he was across the way, I'm not sure, it could have been an echo. They might have been talking. After that, nothing until just now."

"A woman? Talking with him?" Emma glanced wildly at Liam, but he looked as lost as she was. "Do you think she took him somewhere?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry. One of them must have done something to me."

"Mesmered," Emma said. "You were mesmered. I should never have put you in this position. I'm sorry."

"Where is he, though?" David got agitatedly to his feet. "Did he leave me here?"

"We don't know where he is, or who might have been talking to him, assuming it was someone." Emma did her best to fight the tightly drawing knot of panic in her stomach. "I doubt he went willingly, but it doesn't look like there was a fight. I don't get why they'd take him and leave you, especially since you'd be fresh meat – sorry – but still, it seems out of – "

" _Emma."_ The tone in Liam's voice stopped her cold, and she whirled around, as he was stooping to pick up something on the floor nearby. Something that she had seen once before, in her apartment in Boston, and only later understood just who must have left it. Here, now, it was just as unmistakable, and she felt it down to her feet, cold and terrible.

A single long-stemmed, perfect, fresh pink, budding rose.

Nimue.


	23. Chapter 23

"This isn't Nimue's mesmer," Regina said grimly, stepping back and brushing off her hands. "She didn't do this to him. It's Killian's."

A communal intake of breath traveled the dim living room, where Emma and Liam had brought David straightaway, submitted him for inspection alongside Nimue's rose, and reported their alarming conclusion. Mary Margaret looked the most alarmed, hovering territorially along her confused husband, and at Regina's words, she turned to Emma with furrowed brows. "I'm sorry, but. . . are you sure you knew what he really wanted with you? With all of us? If he already turned Henry, and now. . ."

"Turned Henry to save his life!" Emma looked wildly at Regina, hoping she'd change her mind and announce that she had been mistaken, but the older vampire avoided her gaze. "There has to be another explanation. Maybe something happened and Killian was protecting him, making sure none of the other lot could show up and wring him for information. I don't know what Nimue said to him, but I don't believe anything could suddenly get him to change his mind and decide to betray us. All of us. We're his. . . we're his entire family. That's not who he is."

"I'm sorry, we're talking about a potential _second_ Old One going rogue, after all the trouble Nimue caused, and you're worried about _his_ feelings?" Mary Margaret looked at her oddly. "Emma, I know you. . . you liked him, but – "

"Just because he's vanished, presumably in the clutches of someone a lot more powerful than any of us, and David hasn't actually been hurt in any way, doesn't mean I was wrong about him." Emma set her jaw stubbornly, turning to Liam for backup. "This doesn't sound like him, surely. Don't you think so?"

The elder Jones looked haggard and tired, passing a hand over his eyes and through his greying curls. Finally he said, "I don't know. Killian has always had a bit of a wild streak, and he's utterly driven by his heart. If Nimue told him something she thought he would believe. . ."

"Like what? Hypnotize David, and I'll. . . what?" Emma faltered on the word. "Rub a lamp and grant you three wishes? It's not like he can wish for money, immortality, and good looks like the rest of the world would, he's got those covered. So what would she have to hold over his – "

"I can think of one thing," Liam said flatly. "Especially with so many noxious little evil-doers running around to pose such convenient threats. Once you start telling yourself you're doing the right thing for someone else's sake, or that it's a necessary evil forced on you by someone far stronger whom you couldn't have resisted anyway, it's bloody easy to get further down that path than you ever meant to go. Take it from me."

Emma glanced at him, having a distinct sense that this was uncomfortably personal, something he might know about from centuries as Gold's slave and wished he didn't, but there wasn't time to dwell on that. "So you think Nimue offered Killian a deal? Work for me and I'll stop Arthur and Zelena from getting the rest of them – meaning us?"

"Something like that." Liam was weighing his words with care. He glanced sidelong at Will, clearly having picked up that he was likewise familiar with Killian's demons, and Will gave a small, troubled nod. The two werewolves, despite their earlier clashes and Will's threat to take Liam in single combat if he broke Killian's heart one more time, had gravitated to stand together, the natural pack mentality of their kind, and had evidently also realized and accepted that the other loved Killian more than anything. If it came to a fight to save him, they would be on the same side, and Emma felt a brief, painful clench in her chest. As strong as that bond was, as deeply as it showed through, as hopeful and enduring as it was, it could be the very thing driving Killian into Nimue's arms now, thinking that he had to justify it, couldn't let them down, couldn't risk their loss. Couldn't take that chance, and would do anything to try never to face it.

"Well," Will said. "That's obviously a shit thing to happen, forgive me for statin' the obvious. The hell do you think she wanted him to do? I've got no bloody clue."

"I might." Emma's hands tightened on the back of the chair, hard enough to crack the wood, and she let go hastily. "Nimue's beef is with Merlin. That's what's been at the heart of this whole thing – him wanting to stop what she did with his creation, reverse his magic. And Killian hasn't exactly made a secret of the fact that he found Merlin about as useful and enlightening as an internet comments section. If she got into his head about that. . ."

"Oh, hell," Regina said, eyes widening. "He wouldn't be stupid enough to think he could take him on by himself, would he? Killian's no shrinking violet in a fight, but _Merlin. . ._ he's what, as old as the pyramids and has his powers back? Unless – "

"Unless Nimue teamed up with him," Emma completed. "Told him that she'd give him the extra juice he needed, if he agreed. If he got the same kind of power boost from feeding on her that I did from Merlin. . . it already had an effect on us when Arthur offered it to us back in Boston, and we know it's much different with a live feed. . ."

"It would be a problem." Regina looked back at Liam. "Any chance you could intercept your idiot little brother before he does something we'd all regret? If they're going after Merlin, we left him in New York, and I doubt she's going to announce her presence by dropping in on him. She'd have to entice him here somehow. Any ideas?"

"I'm familiar with Gold's methods," Liam said shortly. "Not as much hers. You were the one scouting out Arthur, perhaps you could contribute something useful to the conversation?"

The sound of Regina chewing her tongue to hold back her response to that was almost audible, and in the brief silence, they heard a creak on the stairs above. A groggy voice said, "What's going on, exactly? How long have I been out?"

The family whirled around to behold a tousle-haired, pale-faced Henry, who ventured into the room, sat down abruptly on the couch and looked surprised, and rubbed his gritty eyes with the heel of his hands, clearly still adjusting to a new internal clock that woke him up at sundown and told him it was time to start the day. Emma was amazed he was even functioning, as her first few months of being a vampire had been spent largely in bed no matter the hour, with periodic forays in desperate search of nourishment but not being able to face the thought of actually drinking it (it was the early 90s; the fad diets and blood replacements hadn't hit the market on a major scale, and ONeg tasted like vegetarian tofu back then, so she had to choke down the real stuff). She moved to stand next to him, as he was belatedly realizing he had inadvertently walked into a hostage situation. Glancing at their tense faces, he said, "Who died? Apart from me, I mean."

"We're trying to make sure someone doesn't." As economically as she could, Emma explained the situation, stressing that they didn't know whether Killian had gone willingly or unwillingly, or exactly what might happen as a result. "We just. . .we do think Nimue got to him somehow, and she might have turned his head. But it's all right, Henry, we're going to take care of it. You need to rest and regain your strength. You too, Will. You should both stay behind and recover."

"Like hell I'm just going to go upstairs and nosh on some plasma if this is going on." Henry's eyes flashed a hint of vampiric black as he looked at her, unsettling her further. "You can't put me on the sidelines. I'm not human anymore, you don't have that excuse. I think I've already proved my sincerity, don't you think?"

Emma winced. It was true that trying to keep him from actual physical death was more than pointless at this juncture, but he was still a fledgling, unused to his new powers and grappling with the bloodlust, which could strike quickly and unpredictably. "Henry, I don't know if that's a – "

He looked back at her truculently. She was well aware that although he had three mothers and a father present in the room, all of them would encounter substantial difficulty in preventing him if he put his mind to it. "Killian's in trouble. I don't know what you'd think I'd do while everyone else was out trying to help him, but I assure you, it isn't R&R."

"Me neither," Will said to Emma. "You mended me enough for now, I'm not staying here if Killian's out there. Somebody's got to whack him upside the head, I'm bloody well not missing my chance."

"I can't risk – "

"Mom." Henry stepped closer. "You can't make excuses for this. For us. I know you're thinking defensively, minimize-the-damage mode. No harm, no foul. But there's a lot of harm already, there's a lot of foul, and you're not going to solve this by playing prevent. Leave us behind, and we'll find another way."

She hesitated a moment more, then said, "Fine. But stay close to me, Regina, or Liam." Much as the Nolans loved him, they wouldn't be able to protect him from what they were potentially facing. Indeed, of all the members of the family, it might be most sensible to leave them here, but with Gold by no means certain to be dead and looking for easy leverage, it might be the equivalent of baiting a trap for themselves. She hoped he couldn't get into Killian's own house, but she didn't know. "And remember, just because you're immortal doesn't mean you're invincible. Don't do anything stupid because you think you can't get killed for it."

"I've already gone through it once. I'm not in any haste to repeat the experience, trust me." With a groan, Henry pushed himself to his feet. "Where are we thinking Nimue took him?"

Regina considered, frowning. Then she said, "Arthur's kingdom in the fifth century was some backwater in Wales, the Camelot she destroyed. If she wanted to salt Merlin's wounds, that's where she'd choose to cast him down for good. But I'm also imagining that by now, she wants something a little more spectacular than a hamlet of three hundred people with no cell phone service. It has to be somewhere she knows is important to him and that he'd recognize, where she could be sure he'd appreciate the symbolism of dying. And when Mary Margaret and I were over, Arthur said something about coming full circle, going home. So. . ."

"Tintagel," Henry said. "In Cornwall. That's where Arthur was born, at least allegedly, and since the guy actually exists, I'd say we can bank on that. The castle there, the entire place is a big tourist bonanza for Arthurian aficionados. Trust me, I've written papers on this. If she's picking a site important to show Merlin that she's in charge now, it's Tintagel."

"That's nearly five hours away by car," Liam said. "We don't have that long to spare. We'd have to go at our own top speed, which would mean leaving the Nolans. And that far of a run would be exhausting even for supernaturals, so I'm not sure what fit state to fight we'd be in once we arrived. I'm doubting anyone here knows how to open the same sort of portal Merlin did."

"Not here, no," Regina said slowly. "But I think both of us know someone who does."

Liam looked at her skeptically. "Who?"

Regina took a deep breath. "Gold."

"Bloody hell, _that's_ your plan? Because I'm sure he'll be delighted to emerge from the smoking ruins of his house and do us a favor. Unless you were intending to use a net to catch him? Perhaps a very large mouse trap?"

"Are you always this slow?" Regina looked at him with slitted eyes, clearly cursing the day she had been forced to become part of a supernatural family containing not just one, but _two_ Jones men. "I was going to offer myself up. Draw him out of hiding. We have a history. He's said before he wants me to come back and be his apprentice. He's still been using Merlin for power too, I doubt he's in any haste to see him die for a dangerous rival's benefit. If I tell him, I can get him to make the portal, and then the rest of you just. . . jump in after us."

Emma frowned, thinking back to their conversation in Gold's mansion, and how she had detected that flicker of ambivalence in Regina, her mind not entirely set on completely rejecting her old mentor and vampire father, and her own experience of how quickly Gold could turn and exploit those weaknesses against you. "Regina, are you sure you could handle him?"

"Don't ask questions about things you don't know, Miss Swan," Regina said tightly. "Killian's done something stupid and put us all in danger. The rest of us have to clean up his mess."

"Yes, but if that then leads to compounding the problem – when it's already insanity enough to try to trick Gold into taking us there – what are we going to do when we get there, throw a rock off the cliff and tell him to go get it? It's not like he'd make the situation any better."

"And what's your suggestion? Rent a camper van for a family road trip? Unless – "

"I'll do it," Liam said.

Emma and Regina swiveled to stare at him in unison. "What did you just say?"

He gazed back at them with the quintessential stubborn expression she recognized so well from Killian. "I said, I'll do it. If you appear, Regina, he's going to know beyond all doubt something is up, that there's some sort of trick in the offing. He knows you, and take it from me, he respects you. You can sell the double agent act to Arthur, but not to him."

"And – what?" For just a moment, Regina had looked genuinely touched at the idea that Gold respected her, thus confirming Emma's suspicions that some small part of her still hungered for his approval. "He imagines you're just his useless, brutalized slave, and won't have any possible wherewithal or ability to outwit him?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it," Liam said stiffly. "Yes."

"So what – let him back in? On purpose? How are you any more able to resist him than you think I'm not?" Regina was shaking her head almost in slow motion. "You're the one whose mind he's used as a nuclear waste dump for three centuries, let him in and he'll find out everything we know, everything you know! I'm not compounding the danger just because you think you can – "

"I have experience with him and this sort of thing." Liam's hands closed on the back of the couch. "I know how to control what he sees. There are some places he simply never bothers to look, because he can't imagine what's there being any interest to him. Not to mention, if we get to Tintagel, I can lead him on a wild wolf chase away from the rest of you. He'll want his slave back. It's bloody easier and far more presently beneficial for him to merely catch me again then it is to talk Regina all the way around to his side, so I'd say he'll have the incentive."

Nobody present looked happy with this suggestion, least of all Henry – after all, since he had risked so much (and ended up losing it) to protect Liam from Gold in the first place, he did not appear prepared to allow him to march stubbornly back into the line of fire in the name of the greater good. Still, it was Emma who came up with one last objection. "Are you sure you can – "

"Killian's life is at risk." There was likewise a dangerous glint in Liam's eye that made her remember that mesmer or not, this man had not survived three centuries in Gold's service simply by being a spineless dishrag that he could bend around at will. If he had been weak or incompetent or compassionate, Gold would simply have disposed of him and found a more useful servant. "Once we get him back, you can chastise either of us all you wish. In the meantime, we should get on with it sometime _prior_ to the heat death of the universe."

"Prick," Regina muttered, not quite under her breath enough so that Liam wouldn't hear her. Louder, she said, "If you're insistent on offering yourself up as kibble, I suppose we can't stop you. So what do we do? Get to a safe place away from here, wait for you to entice him to show up, get the portal open, and go?"

"That would be the strategy, yes." Liam looked at her coolly. "If you don't mind?"

Regina made a gesture laced with finely honed sarcasm, as Emma opened her mouth, realized that her contribution was neither needed nor wanted, and the three of them got to their feet, along with Henry, as David tried to rise as well. "Hold on. Whatever's going on, we're coming."

"You realize that 'whatever's going on' is a confrontation with two of the three most powerful vampires alive, or do you need a diagram?" Regina's exasperation was palpable. "Maybe one with primary colors and small words? We can't protect you if it goes wrong!"

"We'll take that risk." David got up, crossed the room, and retrieved his gun from the locked cabinet where he had conscientiously stored it, thumbing open the magazine to show her the silver bullets in the chamber. "If Henry and Will are going, we don't want to be left behind."

Regina looked as if it was up to her, she would strictly forbid all looky-loos or deadweight, but they really didn't have time to quibble. She jerked her head at Emma. "Grab the scale. That way if Tall, Dark, and Stubborn over there actually succeeds in luring Gold after us, you can use it to do what we've been trying this entire time. Or at least giving us the chance."

Emma paused only a moment before nodding smartly, whirling on her heel, and picking it up, its weight unpleasantly ominous in her hands. She was still no closer to receiving a miraculous flash of insight on its operations, or what the price to make it work would be, but she had a sense she might soon be finding out. With it acquired, and Mary Margaret strapping on her bow, they put on shoes and jackets, did their best to look as if they were out for a nice night in the capital while heavily armed, and kept to the shadows as they wove across the square, through the streets, and finally into a narrow, cobbled alley with nothing but a few rubbish bins, scuttling rats, dirty brick, and peeling plaster. When they had hidden as far away as possible to stop Gold from sensing their presence, but close enough that they could make a run at any opening portal, Emma reached out one last time to put a hand on Liam's arm. "Hey. You're _sure_ you can do this?"

He gave her an obstinate look. "Aye. Let's worry about Killian first, shall we? Whatever you see, don't interfere. Just focus on getting to the portal when he opens it."

Emma wasn't entirely sure that he was biting off more than he could chew, especially so freshly freed from Gold's thrall, and hoped that his pride and drive to prove himself, while good to see returning, wouldn't end up costing them. So she nodded once and withdrew behind the Dumpster, maneuvering just enough to peer through a crack between it and the grimy wall. She could just make out Liam's silhouette in the faint glow of city light, as he threw back his shoulders and went oddly stiff, as if someone had jerked his strings (and if Gold was his puppet master, perhaps he had). If Henry had guessed wrong and Nimue had taken Killian somewhere else, they were going to end up on a dark night in Cornwall with an angry Gold on their tail, and not much time to figure out how to lose him if Liam's plan went sideways. Or if Liam himself gave in fully to Gold's control and wolfed out on them, or inadvertently revealed everything they knew. She waited tensely, half-prepared to spring out and fight Gold himself if need be. Only the thought of Killian, off God knew where with the Queen of the Damned whispering in his ear, kept her in check.

A moment later, there was a blur of motion, resolving into a charred-looking, but certainly upright and ambulatory, vampire, purple tie pulled raggedly loose and shaggy brown-grey hair smelling distinctly singed around the edges. To say the least, Gold did not look pleased, or as if he had recently been having a good go of things, but an avaricious gleam lit in his eyes at the sight of his slave. Emma expected him to say something, ask what was going on, but by the look of concentration on his face, she could tell that it was in fact more horrifying; Gold was just casually ripping the information out of Liam's head as if on high-speed download. She prayed that Liam had been correct when he said he could control what Gold saw, that it would only be the strategic parts. It looked like it was hurting him, as he went half to his knees, Gold turned around, and began sketching an outline in the air, and peeled it back like the skin of an orange to reveal somewhere very far from London on the other side. A gust of salt-smelling wind skimmed through as Gold made a negligent gesture, Liam obediently staggered into the portal, and he stepped after him. And then, as the magical doorway started to ripple and seal, Emma threw herself out from cover and ran like hell for it.

She hit it headlong just as it was about to close, a feeling like a ton of bricks in her chest, as she grappled desperately to pull it wider again. Her hands burned and sparked, sputtering like a bad electrical connection, as she felt the oncoming rush of Regina, Will, Henry, and the Nolans behind her, their combined weight avalanching them through the resistant threads of reality and into thin air, and she had a brief and horrible fear that Gold had redirected the portal to open right above the cliffs. Then something solid slammed up into her, they dogpiled out of the portal in a completely undignified heap, a stirring and majestic overture to their desperate rescue mission, and lay there wheezing. The night sky stretched above like an unbroken pane of stars, the sound of waves in the distance, and thick grass and damp earth tickled her nose. They were definitely somewhere near the sea, all right. Not in London.

Emma pushed herself upright, having to remove someone's leg from her face first, and looked around. She could make out the distant silhouette of ghostly castle ruins on the headland, as well as two swift-moving shadows – one human, or at least human-shaped, and one wolf. _Gold and Liam._ Clearly intending to stop the sacrifice, or at least co-opt Merlin for their own purposes while dealing a blow to Nimue, or possibly just bring this entire lurking, slow-brewing supernatural war to a violent and explosive apogee. She couldn't tell if Liam was still resisting or not, or if Gold had gotten completely into his head again. They lost every scrap of their proprietary intelligence if he had been wrong about his ability to outwit his slave master.

No time to wonder. They picked themselves up and sorted themselves out, then began to run. The sea spread in nearly all directions like an endless sheet of black glass, cliffs crumbling down to a narrow strip of beach, and Henry put on a burst of his new supernatural speed to catch up with Emma. "Down there," he said. "In the bay. There's a passage through the headland, Merlin's Cave. I bet you anything that's where Nimue would take him."

"Let's hope you're right." Emma sped up further, flashing across the top of the cliff to the narrow stairway that descended precipitously to the sand below. The Nolans were lagging, so Regina doubled back and grabbed them, hauling them to catch up with the rest of the group. A thick sea fog was starting to roll in off the ocean, slick grey tendrils curling against the steep rocks and making the descent treacherous even for them; they couldn't be killed by a fall, or at least the supernaturals among them couldn't, but it could hurt them badly enough to stick for a while and to lose what little scrap of advantage they had remaining. Her boots skidded with loose rock as she tried to blend safety with speed, head briefly reeling at the long drop below, glad it was dark enough not to be able to actually see most of it. They were absurdly exposed up here, all six of them climbing down at once, and anyone on the beach below could just stand there and take their shots.

A few moments later, they hit the sand, the dark bulk of the cliff rearing above like the prow of a mighty ship. They could still see Gold and Liam ahead, which seemed to indicate that Gold had formulated similar conclusions about where the party would be happening, and Emma ran flat-footed across the wrack-strewn beach, the scale jangling under her jacket, gripped by a brief and insane idea that if she could just get to Gold, wrench his heart or whatever she was supposed to do, pay the price, end this now –

She sensed Merlin's Cave before she saw it, a vast, dark mouth that opened up just a few dozen yards from the sea; it would definitely flood at high tide, and she spared half a second to wonder when exactly that was, if the water looked to be creeping up or ebbing out. There was a definite spark inside, some kind of burning beacon, signaling someone's presence. They had to be close.

Emma hurtled over the briny boulders, shinning up one side and sliding down the other, as the rest of the family quickly closed the distance behind her. Just as she was about to pelt into the cave proper, however, there was a whoosh and a blur, and Gold materialized directly in front of her, scaring the life out of her, and bared his teeth in a categorically hostile grin. "Miss Swan, how wonderful of you to arrange to catch up after our little accident earlier. You'll be expecting the bill from the insurance company, I imagine?"

Emma stared at him, face to face and almost nose to nose, wondering if this was it, if she needed to pull his physical heart out and put it on the scale, and how on earth she would even do such a thing. Words failed her. She was supposed to have something to say, some defiance, but all she could hear was the howling of the wind. The knowledge that Killian must be here, just inside that cave, that Nimue must be gulling and goading him into something terrible, that the world was about to be turned upside down, was the only thing she had space for, inside her. And so she looked straight back at the dread dark lord standing in her way, and ordered, "Move."

Gold actually blinked, having clearly not expected that brazen of a defiance. Perhaps this was the part where she was supposed to decide she had no chance of outmatching him and decide to bow to her fate, but if so, he had drastically miscalculated. Something even akin to unease briefly flittered across his face, what little could be made out in the moonlight as the wind whipped the clouds over it, before he recovered. "Are you sure you want to go in there and see who Killian Jones truly is? You seem to have convinced yourself otherwise as to the fundamental truth of his nature, entirely ignoring everything I warned you of at our conversation earlier. We don't change, and never will. And you're not ready to see him at his worst."

"I'll decide that." Emma started past him, just as Regina, Will, Henry, and the Nolans skidded up, momentarily at a loss to behold Gold himself directly in front of them. But rather than open fire, the vampire simply shrugged, tipped them a sardonic salute, and vanished into the night at top speed again. Shouting could now clearly be heard from the cave.

Emma put her head down and lit out after him, powering up the loose, unstable sand to the lip of the overhanging rock, wondering half-seriously if there was a Horcrux hidden down here too. She clambered over the slippery boulders, heart in her throat, and splashed knee-deep into a brackish tidepool, nearly losing her footing before she made it back onto firmer ground. By the sound of things, the rest of the family was still charging up arrears, which made this only moderately instead of ludicrously stupid. Wet boots creaking, she sprinted.

The cave floor was flat for a few dozen yards, before tilting down into a larger chamber with the ceiling high enough to be lost in gloom. At the center of it, Killian stood next to Nimue, but he bore only a passing resemblance to the Killian she knew. His eyes were strangely clouded, pitch-black, and his hair wildly disheveled, fangs bared in a contemptuous grin. She could tell at once that he must have fed on Nimue directly, her blood having that same destructive, unhinging effect that Emma herself had already struggled with in Boston; for a vampire as old as Killian, and with such a tragic, angry past, it must have been straight heroin, and she had seen how he had been unable to stop drinking it from Arthur's strategically offered decanter. He looked demented, dangerous, in a way she had never seen him, even when he was disemboweling a dozen attackers for her at the London Eye without breaking a sweat, and she felt it almost physically. Whatever was about to happen, this wasn't good.

Still, though, that was not even the worst thing about the situation. Merlin lay on the ground at their feet, bound and gagged with something stronger and stranger than ordinary chains, as Nimue looked down at him pitilessly. She was gripping a curved knife in one hand, and holding out the other to keep a very large werewolf from coming any closer; whether Liam was trying to rescue Killian on his own volition, or to attack Nimue on Gold's, Emma could not be certain. He paced in circles, snarling, but couldn't break through whatever protective force field she appeared to be casting. Gold himself was standing just at the boundary of it, rolling up his sleeves, as if it was now very much time to get down to business and defeat the Huns. Some potentially spectacular sorcerous faceoff was thus interrupted by Emma racing in, stopping just short, and causing everyone a moment of serious alarm. "Sorry to gatecrash," she panted. "But whatever the hell this is, it needs to stop."

"Emma Swan." Nimue eyed her amusedly, not appearing overly surprised by her presence. "Really taking to this hero business, aren't you? I'm glad Merlin gets to see it before he dies. That, and his ultimate failure at thinking you could possibly defeat me. As for these other sacrificial lambs you've brought with you, it was – I don't know that I'd call it thoughtful? Killian, tell them to stay back. As I told you, only one man has to die tonight."

"Stay away." Killian snapped his fangs at them, taking a slow step forward. "You have no idea what you're doing."

Will whistled. _"We_ have no idea what we're doin'? What about _you?_ Get off the crazy juice, love, and think about this for a hot second. She's got you bamboozled. This isn't you."

"Not me?" A feral, ugly light flashed in Killian's blackened eyes as he laughed. _"You_ of all people say that, werewolf? You know how many animals of your kind I've put down, and I don't regret a single one of them. You forgave me for it, because you were weak, pathetic, and lovesick. If you respected yourself or who you were, you never would have, but that's just what we can expect from you, isn't it?"

Will flinched. "Right then, no thinkin' about it. Much too difficult for you. Clearly the only way to bring you to your damn senses is to punch you in the face."

"Go ahead and try." Killian spun extravagantly on his heel, circling back to Nimue. "And when it ends with all of you dead, don't say I didn't warn you."

Gold cleared his throat. "Fascinating as this sordid lovers' quarrel is, I'm afraid we all have more urgent business. Miss Swan, you know what you need to do." He tipped his head at Nimue. "I did tell you all this, before you were so inconsiderate as to repay my advice by burning my house down. And please, don't act as if I don't know exactly what the plan is. I know you have the scale, I know you all thought you were getting one over on me, including _him._ Don't worry, my slave will duly regret that disobedience as well. In the meantime, we can gawk at each other a bit more, or we can get on with it. Which will it be?"

"I wouldn't." Nimue smiled sleekly. She made a languid gesture, and Killian stepped forward, hauled Merlin to his feet, and took the knife as she offered it, twisting it into the sorcerer's throat. "One step, and he dies."

"You can't kill him yourself, can you?" Emma didn't move forward, just in case, but she could still feel the tension building in her muscles, coiled to the point of a sudden spring. "He's protected from you somehow, so you had to imprison him all those years instead of just getting rid of him outright. That's why you're trying to get Killian to do it for you now."

"Perhaps." Nimue shrugged. "Does it make a difference? The outcome will still be the same. As for you, _universus,_ I'll deal with you shortly. If you'd just been wise enough to leave everyone else behind, they wouldn't have to die too, but since you did – "

"Killian." Ignoring her, Emma spoke urgently, staring straight into his eyes. "Killian, I know this isn't what you wanted to do. Will's right, it's not you speaking. Just drop the knife and – "

"What? Run to your loving arms? We've fucked a few times and you think you mean something to me?" He twisted the knife into Merlin's throat hard enough to draw a deep scarlet drop of blood. "Well, you don't, and I know I don't mean anything to you either, so let's not waste time with the false promises. It really doesn't look good on you, darling."

"Killian, you idiot." Regina moved up on Emma's other side. "This is ridiculous even by your standards. Why do you think all of us are here? It wasn't to listen to you insulting us while hopped up on evil pills. Drop the knife, or I'm tearing your throat out myself."

"Well, at least you're honest about being a horrible person." Killian's head swung unsettlingly in her direction. "Which is the first time in your life, so a cookie for – "

Regina had heard enough. She tilted her head at Emma, who cottoned on, nodded ever so slightly back, and poised. Then, just as Nimue narrowed her eyes in suspicion, about to use her newly freed second hand to increase the strength of the protective field she was casting, they sprang.

Regina went for Killian, Emma for Nimue, both of them hitting their targets with almighty crashes and rolling away in a flurry of flying sand, kicking feet, whirling arms, and snapping fangs, wrestling and writhing and punching. Merlin, bleeding from the head, crawled away dazedly. Gold regarded the chaos with the demeanor of a beleaguered medieval king happy to watch his treacherous vassals squabbling among each other rather than rising up to challenge him, at least until a werewolf – Will, it wasn't big enough to be Liam – shot out of the darkness, tackled him flat, and began to use his Armani-suited leg as a chew toy for all it was worth.

Emma lost track of the other conflicts after that, having to devote all her attention to fighting Nimue. She was as slippery as a serpent and twice as fast, darting and dancing out of even Emma's supernaturally enhanced field of vision, and each blow she landed felt as if it had gone entirely through Emma's body and burst out the other side. They had a strange effect on each other, some invisible force wrenching and jerking them apart, as if someone was trying to force together two magnets with reverse polarities, two halves that were inimical to each other, made of completely opposite substances with no intermingling possible. Emma supposed briefly that if she was the _universus,_ somebody who existed solely for the purpose of undoing Nimue's power, that made sense – but was that all she was supposed to be? Was everything else in her life just a fluke, costume dressing accidentally acquired en route to her fate of killing or being killed to stop the Mother of Vampires from completing her rise to ultimate power? Did it even matter that she had been an abused, abandoned foster kid, that she'd fallen for Neal and tried everything to keep him, that she'd had Henry and given him up when he was ten? Was that when her life had actually ended, and everything after that had just been this, one inexorable march to destiny?

At any rate, the existential questions would likewise have to wait. The Osiris scale flew out of her jacket as she and Nimue grappled, and both of them clawed for it, kicking and shoving each other across the sand. Nimue reached for it, fingers batting – and then Emma bombed down on top of her, getting on top of her and pinning her. Nimue's black eyes spat up at her, fangs mindlessly gnashing like a spider's mandibles, as Emma groped for the scale herself, not knowing what was about to happen but supposing this was it, now she found out, now she paid the price – transfer the spark of vampiric existence to herself, if that was what she was supposed to do, if Gold hadn't just been lying through his teeth about that as well –

And then, something hit her with the force of an exploding building, sending her soaring through the dark air of the cave long enough for her to actually feel the sensation of flying, before she hit the rocks hard enough for even an immortal to briefly wonder if her back had been broken. Dazed, she jerked and twitched, as the haze in her vision cleared long enough for her to see Killian on top of her, face burning like the mouth of hell. Regina lay in a crumpled heap several dozen yards away, not moving much, as Henry tried to crawl toward her. "Sorry," Killian snarled. "Can't have you doing that, _love."_

Emma lurched, arching her back, locking her legs around him and pulling him sharply against her body in the way she had done in far more pleasurable circumstances not long ago. She flailed out, got hold of a handful of his hair, and jerked his head away as he tried to bite into her neck, the two of them rolling and pummeling, kicking and struggling for all they were worth. He was incredibly strong, perhaps even more so than Nimue, and was clearly well used to physical fighting, the sand caving in to either side of her as she twisted wildly to avoid his blows. A few ones still caught, however, and she briefly saw bloody stars, until a mad idea, that being the only kind applicable in the situation, occurred to her. As she managed to get the upper hand for a few precious seconds, she jerked his head back and, as he had just tried to do to her, bit.

Killian yowled, thrashing, which only had the effect of allowing her to clamp down harder. It was most likely ludicrous – but he had Nimue's blood in him, it was that making him act this way, and Emma had gambled if she could get some of it out, like sucking the poison from a snakebite, it might lessen the thrall. She was well aware that sucking a snakebite did not actually work, but this did not quite apply to the same class of being, and she hung on tenaciously, feeling the delicious burn and lure of the bloodlust start to spread through her as she drank. She didn't want to stop either, she wanted to be stronger, she wanted to take, to overpower, to conquer, to –

Killian was still struggling beneath her, but not quite as violently. They rolled over one more time, still entangled, as she remained attached – then at once, he jerked hard and slumped, going as motionless as a garden hose. Before she had time to fear that she had accidentally killed him, she saw David's white face loom out of the darkness behind them, a heavy chunk of rock clutched in his hand, with which he had just dealt Killian an almighty blow upside the head. Removing the unconscious vampire from her, he panted, "Emma, Emma, are you all right?"

"Yeah." She sat up slowly, fighting an absurd urge to teach David a sharp lesson for daring to presume that she needed a lowly human's help to fight her battles. "I think so, I just. . . I had it under control."

David gave her a strange look, clearly wondering just what part of the situation had looked to be under control, as she knelt next to Killian and tried to see if he was all right. Not as if a mortal whack on the head was going to keep him down for very long, and there was no way to tell if he'd still be dangerous when he woke up. The blood trickling through his hair was congealing even as she watched, which was good in terms of knowing that he wasn't hurt and bad in terms of them soon having to think of a third attempted takedown plan if the biting and bashing didn't succeed. Remembering that she had left a rather large mess behind her, she whirled around just in time to see Nimue getting to her feet, stalking to stand over the scale, but not quite touching it. It was plain that she either couldn't, or she was not about to risk accidentally transferring away her immortality and power. She crooked a finger at Emma. "You know, I was going to be nice about this. But now you, my dear, have made me angry, and I'm afraid that's just not something I am going to let pass by. Come here and destroy the scale, or everyone dies."

"Oh?" Emma darted a quick glance around, trying to account for everyone. David was at her back, Killian was out, and Regina was still down, Henry crouching next to her. Mary Margaret looked mildly stunned, as all her training in a ordinary Massachusetts gym could not have prepared her for being in the middle of a full-speed life-or-death supernatural fight, but otherwise unhurt. Liam had turned back into a man, but there was something wrong with him; he was holding his head at a strange angle, looking away, making no move to either help Gold or hinder him. Gold himself had gotten the upper hand on Will, but for a vampire who had clearly not done this much fighting in the old-fashioned knock-down, drag-out, bare-knuckle style for a long time, and who had already escaped from a raging fire earlier, he was not at the pinnacle of his abilities, breathing hard, rumpled, and bloodied as he eyed Will's prone form malevolently. The young werewolf was breathing, but had also taken a few too many shots on top of his serious head wound earlier, and did not look to be getting up and climbing back into the ring any time soon. As for Merlin, he was nowhere to be seen. Emma didn't want to goad Nimue, but she was also unsure if she really had enough power to level them all with a single blast, especially considering that the overwhelming majority of them were immortals, and didn't want to do something rash out of fear. So all she said, simply, was, "No."

"Playing games?" Nimue raised her hand, and there was an ominous rumble from the rocks in the ceiling above, as if she could trigger a collapse with one further twitch of a well-groomed finger. "Do you really want to do that? Or do you know that if I caused the cave to fall on us, the only people who would be completely certain to die are the humans, and then you never have to share Henry with them again? Oh, the rest of you wouldn't enjoy it either, and I daresay you'd stretch the protection of immortality to its limits. . . but you'd _probably_ survive. Not that it would do you much good, because by the time you got free, there wouldn't be much left for you to do. So, Emma. Think about this. The scale, or your family's lives. Choose wisely."

Emma stood motionless, mind racing to come up with a possible if completely unlikely third option. If she destroyed the scale, there went all hope of stopping Gold or Nimue, but if she didn't. . . Nimue made another slight gesture, and a rain of rock dust sifted down on them, the cave groaning under the strain, as she looked wildly around in hopes that Merlin was lurking in a corner somewhere. But she still didn't see him, and a chunk the size of a Volkswagen broke off and crashed into the ground less than ten feet away from Mary Margaret, who jumped backwards. There also seemed to be more water than when they had arrived, which meant the tide was coming in and the cave would soon be partially or fully submerged. But she couldn't –

Just then, she sensed movement behind her, and spun to face it, but half a second too late. Something flashed overhead, landed, and snatched hold of the scale, jerking it backwards out of both Nimue and Emma's reach as they pivoted madly on the spot. Then the blur resolved itself into Killian, still looking considerably the worse for wear; Emma hadn't had time to lick closed the bite wound on his neck, and a few droplets were trickling down the line of his throat into his collar. He held up the scales like Lady Justice about to render sentence, as both Nimue and Emma started forward. Then, just as she was wondering if he was going to destroy them or hand them over, he whipped his arm back and hurled them into the depths of the cave, far and long enough that there was not even a hint of an echo to indicate where they might have landed. Just them going up into the air, arms swinging wildly as the brass caught a gleam, and then vanishing, swallowed up completely into the heart of darkness.

Emma's outcry got stuck in her throat. Nimue, for her part, looked briefly baffled, and even somewhat afraid, as if she couldn't figure out why Killian had not simply destroyed the scales in front of her eyes as she had ordered. Then she apparently decided that even if so, her point had been made, and went up in a whirl of smoke, a shadow streaking across the wall of the cave and a sound like a distant shriek echoing back at them. Gold likewise decided that the evening's entertainment had run its course, and snapped his fingers at Liam. "Here, boy."

Liam's head came up slowly, eyes not quite focused, recognizing the order but not moving either to obey or deny it. It seemed clear that Gold had gotten much farther into his head than he had intended to let him, and Emma wondered if the Jones brothers had both succumbed to their old darkness, albeit for different reasons, at the same time. They still didn't know for certain what had caused Nimue to succeed in breaking Killian, though with Liam it was more straightforward; he thought he could hold Gold off, and he couldn't. He rocked slightly on his toes, the water level now up past his ankles; there was probably a good foot on the cave floor, and more coming in. His eyes flickered in Killian's direction; Killian himself was staring back, unmoving. The brothers locked gazes for a long, tenuous moment, fighting somehow, whether with or against each other was unclear. Then Liam shook his head, turned back to Gold, and said, "Fuck you."

"Beg pardon?"

"Did I bloody stammer?" Liam took a step, which in his current state was enough to make Gold actually retreat a corresponding pace. "Get out of here before I find out if I can do the same to you as you did to me. Now."

Slowly enough to make it look as if he was not scuttling in fear of his slave, but with enough alacrity to tell Emma that he had not expected this to happen and was deciding to cut his losses after the bugger of a night anyway, Gold stepped back again, then turned into the Gaussian blur caused by old vampires moving at high speed, and was gone in a flash. Removal of malefactors thus ascertained, Liam and Emma glanced at each other – it was good to see _him_ in his eyes again, ragged and battered though he might be – and lunged through the deepening water to Killian, who still seemed to be in a state of mild shock. They clawed up the slippery rock toward him, each of them grabbing one of his arms and pulling him down into them, restraining him in case he tried to run or otherwise do something alarming. "You get him and the rest of them out of here," Emma ordered. "I've got to find those scales."

Liam stared at her. "Bloody hell, the tide's coming in! You want to go _deeper_ into this damn place by yourself, after he already – "

"What choice do we have?" The water was now rushing in hard enough to make them stagger, and Emma had to shout. "If they get washed out to sea, lost in some hellhole forever, we're doomed! Will's hurt, so's Regina, you're going to need David and Henry to help you with them, and I can't very well take Mary Margaret with me! Besides, this is _Merlin's_ Cave. I think he's still in here somewhere, and I need to find him! I need to know what the hell happened!"

Liam looked as if he was going to argue, but they very much did not have time for it. At any rate, they were then interrupted by a groan. Killian opened one eye, looking dazed and ill, pushing his wet hair out of his face. "Oh Christ," he said. "I utterly cocked it up, didn't I?"

"Yes," Liam said ruthlessly. "You bloody well did. But I might have done it worse, so we can compare notes when we get out of this piss. You take Will and Mary Margaret, I'll handle David and Regina. Seeing as you were the one responsible for their indisposition in the first place, it may feel a bit like adding insult to injury otherwise."

Killian still looked horrified, struggling to comprehend what must feel like waking up from what he had thought was just a nightmare, only to discover that it was terribly, irrevocably real. "Swan." He turned to Emma imploringly. "Swan, tell me I didn't – I'll come with you, I – "

"No. Go!" She was making her task more difficult every instant she let the water level get higher. If she didn't want to swim the entire Atlantic Ocean looking for those scales, she needed to start _now._ "Take Henry and the others, get out of here! I'll catch up later!"

From the look on his face, the last thing Killian Jones felt was the right course of action to make up for his mistake was to leave her in a dark, rapidly flooding cave by herself, to go in search of the one priceless artifact he himself had chucked away. But Liam barked at him, and he jerked, whirled around (not without one last desperate look at her) and waded across the cave to the others, getting Will's arm draped over his shoulder and offering Mary Margaret a hand, even as she stared suspiciously at him, clearly not sure what to make of this change of heart. Then as Henry got hold of Regina and Liam took charge of David, they began to splash furiously toward the exit, as she watched them go in petrified terror for a moment longer. Their figures grew smaller, then vanished around a bend, and she lost sight of them entirely.

There was nothing but black water on all sides. She knew she couldn't drown, but that didn't lessen the stab of revulsion she felt at the idea of plunging deeper into the rush, into the darkness, into whatever was waiting down there, natural or otherwise. She wondered if Killian had thrown the scales as the only possible alternative to destroying them, not willing to run the risk of Nimue killing the rest of the family instead, and hoped so. It looked as if her unorthodox procedure to literally drain some of the evil influence out of him had worked, but was that a permanent fix? Was it like mesmer, where once a hold was established, you just had to reactivate it rather than bothering to dig in once more? What if he, like Liam with Gold, couldn't keep Nimue out of his head entirely, no matter how hard he tried, and she couldn't save him again?

No matter. No time.

Emma took a deep breath, out of pointless old habit, and dove.


	24. Chapter 24

Cold black water swallowed her, down and down and down, as Emma kicked hard, trying to prevent herself from being pulled along with the tide, washed clean through the cave and out into the ocean. She could barely see, but there was nothing _to_ see apart from swirling currents and the thick sediment stirred up from the bottom. The water was twelve or fifteen feet deep, showing no signs of abating its rise, and she had to fight with all her might against the human impulse to breathe – immortal or otherwise, she did not imagine it would be particularly pleasant to inhale a raw, freezing lungful of the North Atlantic. The urge stabilized somewhat as she clung onto a submerged rock outcropping, which of course had not been submerged ten minutes ago, and spared one more thought for the others trying to get out of here, prayed that they had. Then, as her eyes started to adjust and she could more clearly make out the dark tunnel that led deeper into the cave, she kicked off and started to swim.

Her first stroke propelled her an impressively far distance, making her briefly wonder if vampires could compete in the Olympics, or that would be cheating. (Also, the IOC could, if nothing else, probably tell when an athlete was actually dead, although they would charge a bribe for the diagnosis.) Still, though. Despite the exigency of the situation, it was almost enjoyable to channel her inner Michael Phelps, skimming quickly and effortlessly across the bottom, hands groping out in every direction for anything that felt remotely like the scales. She didn't know how far Killian could have thrown them, or how much of a head start the tide had on her, and forced away the unhelpful thought that they were already lost forever, hence why Nimue had been content to leave, thinking they posed no more threat. But Merlin was still down here somewhere, most likely. Couldn't he just do a spell, or at least something remotely helpful, and poof them up for her?

Emma's fingers brushed against something metallic, and she grabbed at it, but it was just a bit of twisted junk, something that had been down here for God knew how long. It really was very dark, not to mention cold. She couldn't freeze to death any more than she could drown, but she could feel it seeping into her bones, something different from the general lack of body heat that characterized a vampire anyway. There was something particularly terrible to be said for the effectiveness of immortal torment, that was for certain – if you, like Prometheus, couldn't ever actually die, but had to suffer the pain of the birds pecking out your liver over and over again. Stealing fire from the gods, indeed.

Grimly, Emma kept paddling, supposing that if she ever got tired of the bail bonds thing, she could set up a tidy little side venture in search and rescue, or sunken treasure hunting. Did vampires do that? Certainly they didn't all sit around in their old and expensive houses, brooding about their tragic lives (although she was rather fond of the ones she knew who did). Coast Guard divers and rescue swimmers? Scientists and explorers in extreme parts of the world – Antarctica, the deep Amazon jungle, the high Himalayas – where humans couldn't easily go? First-response humanitarian aid workers in places hit by earthquakes and hurricanes and tsunamis? She was currently in a fully submerged cave in close to twenty feet of freezing dark water, hadn't breathed in the last fifteen minutes, and if otherwise feeling a bit chilly and soggy and pessimistic, physically she was completely fine. It was the first time that the actual immortality thing really struck her. Zelena and Arthur and Nimue wanted to remake the human world to suit vampires, but what if there was a way to remake the vampire world to work with humans? Help people. Not just drop an absolute barrier between their old and new lives, then send them off to spend several centuries doing essentially the same shit they had done as mortals, but to make it mean something. Maybe she could put the _universus_ thing to work in this direction, later. If she found the scales. If she could stop Nimue in time.

Absorbed as she was in these intriguing visions of a vampire Red Cross (blood drives at least would not be a problem) Emma almost swam directly into a broad pillar of rock, something quite different from the crumbling white chalk and limestone of the rest of the cave system. It was jet black, shining and faceless as onyx, so that her hands slipped off when she tried to get purchase on it; indeed, it took her a rather panicked moment to realize that it _was_ rock, and that the water had not abruptly frozen solid in front of her. Feeling an unexpected sympathy for birds who flew into glass windows, she cautiously beetled her way up it, having a sense of air and open space above. The water was no lighter, but it sounded hollower, echoing, and indeed a moment later, her head breached the surface as she coughed and spat, letting the stale air whoosh out of her lungs in a gasp. It looked like some kind of underground lake, the black pillar in the middle, ringed by a crown of impressively large stalagmites and glittering speleothems of all sorts; Emma had seen pictures of Lechuguilla Cave in New Mexico, and this place could definitely give it a run for its money. Not that people would be able to see it to compare, as the route she had just taken in was not exactly doable for your average tourist, and besides, she had the distinct sense that even if she came back at low tide and walked instead of swam, she still wouldn't find it. This was some fold or ripple of existence, a place caught between reality or slightly ajar to it, disconnected from the usual demands of space and logic – the exact same sense she'd had in Merlin's cage back in New York, in fact. And as she was thinking that, a hand reached down for hers, and a voice said, "Hello, Emma."

Not entirely surprised, but somehow still not quite expecting it, she scraped her sodden hair out of her face and looked up to see Merlin standing above her on the rock. There was still some dried blood on his forehead, but no other apparent signs of injury – or, for that matter, how he had gotten here – and his grip was firm and solid as he helped haul her out of the water. She had about a thousand questions, most of the sort she imagined he'd refuse to answer, but at least he was here, and not dead, which had to mean there was still a hope of thwarting Nimue. Dripping and shivering, she followed him around the base of the column to a place where it flattened out into smooth, ancient stone. He took a seat, so she did as well, and noticing her bedraggled state, he made a quick gesture. A sensation of glowing warmth briefly enveloped her, then faded, leaving her quite dry and comfortable. Glad that she was able to speak without her fangs chattering, she said, "Thanks."

Merlin inclined his head. "Of course."

A pause, as Emma tried to think how to possibly start this conversation. Finally she said, "Back in New York, the real _Liber incarcerati_ at Columbia, you were guarding it. Did something happen?"

"No," Merlin reassured her. "I put my strongest defenses on it before I left, so it should be safe enough. But I know what you are really asking, how Nimue got hold of me. It was a foolish risk on my part. She allowed me to sense the presence of the one thing she knew I wouldn't be able to resist trying to get back from her, and unfortunately, I fell into her trap."

"What? The scales?" Emma was confused. "But she didn't have those, I did."

Merlin smiled faintly. "No, not the scales. The original Book of the Dead, the copy I wrote several millennia ago as a slave in Egypt. The one whose magic she perverted, to give rise to vampires. She has it, and she knows I'll do anything to get it back from her, because as long as she does, nothing and no one can permanently harm her."

"So – what? Where's she hiding it? We've gotten into kind of a cottage industry of doing questionable things with old manuscripts by now, we'll work it out. Is this one in the British Library too, or – "

"No," Merlin said. "It's not a physical object. It's the spark in her, the root of vampire existence, the one you were told to transfer out of her and into yourself by using the scales. That is what Gold said to you, isn't it? Take that life from her, that essence, and then you can kill her?"

"Something like that. I figured he must be lying somehow, but not about that." Emma felt her stomach sinking. "Unless he was?"

"Not entirely. But as usual, he neglected to tell you the whole truth, possibly because in this case even he does not know. As I warned you, there will be a terrible price, and not one that even I can see with certainty. The thing about scales, after all, is that they must balance. Whatever you put into it, it must match whatever you are trying to take from Nimue, Gold, or any of them. So it could take away their power and immortality, or it could take away yours. It must have as much a chance of affecting you both, for otherwise there would be no point to it, and no justice. It would not be the scales, where one is matched and considered against the other, but a sword, where one takes it and simply strikes down the other. And it is not that."

"So. . . if I want to make Nimue and Gold powerless and mortal, I have to accept the possibility that I'll become powerless and mortal too?" Once, it would have been the only thing Emma wanted to hear, a miraculous cure, a way to become human again. Go back to her old life, or what idealized version of it she had been carrying in her head all these years, when the truth was that it had been. . . well, to say the least, not very good. All this time she had spent beating herself up for not being human, not being able to be Henry's mother, all the other failures she had burdened on herself. But now, Henry himself was a vampire. The rest of her strange but precious little family – Killian, Liam, Regina, Will – were all vampires and werewolves, and even David and Mary Margaret, while still human, had deepening ties to this world. Leave the supernatural behind, and she would be a fifty-year-old woman, alone in the mortal realm she had watched pass by through the looking glass. Growing old, while the rest of them did not age a day. Knowing that any future was conditional, that they might face years, decades, centuries to come living without her. Didn't know if she'd want them – want Killian – to move on, to forget about her, or not. On one hand, it was the selfless thing to do, what you were supposed to want for your loved ones – happiness, even if it ultimately wasn't with you. But the thought of this, of a future of his where she was just a fading memory, left her stricken, speechless. All those empty, wasted years, whether the ones already behind him or the ones that might be yet to come. It wasn't _fair,_ and yet terribly, inexorably, she knew it was. _The scales must balance._

"I'm sorry," Merlin said, clearly guessing the reason for her silence. "It's no easy pill to swallow. That's why I had to ask you, you see. If you wanted them back."

"What?"

"The scales. I can give them back to you. But now that you know the price, it has to be your choice. If you take them again, you must be prepared to use them, and without hesitation. If not, well. . ."

For a moment, Emma was seriously, dangerously tempted. All she had to do was refuse, and then there would be no chance of losing her immortality. No chance of compromising a future with Henry and Killian – a future, now that it hung quite literally in the balance, she wanted more than anything in either of her lives. She didn't want to go back to being human, to being limited and broken and afraid. And yet, the mere fact of becoming a vampire hadn't done anything to change that, to fix her. No magical panacea to make her perfect. It wasn't until now that she had finally learned who she was, who she could be, and she didn't want to go back. If she gave the world the chance to take everything away from her again. . . no, she couldn't. They could go somewhere far away from all this. They could be happy. They could be safe.

Safe at the expense of never stopping Nimue. Safe at the expense of letting Gold do to however many others what he had done to Killian and Liam and Regina, and all his other victims over the centuries. Safe at the expense of only looking out for herself, so she wouldn't get hurt.

"I. . ." She looked at her hands, twisted in her lap. "Is this what you've been planning for all along? If Nimue dies, so does the one who stops her? A Voldemort-and-Harry thing, since you're such a big Dumbledore fan?"

"If you want to call it that. But magic always has a price, Emma. We use it, we're drawn to it, we want it, because we feel as if it will solve all our problems without the toil and danger that comes of doing it the hard way. And for stopping Nimue and Gold, yes, that price will need to be paid. But remember, as it has been all along. Not if you don't choose to do so."

Emma was quiet. As before, she was still of the opinion that this was a terrible caveat, that choosing to do anything, if the only other option was more hurt and danger, could be no real choice at all. At last she said, "What if I didn't?"

Merlin gave half a shrug. "Then you wouldn't. You're the _universus,_ they can't hurt you. You could even decide to work with them, and they'd reward you richly, shield the others on your behalf. You could, I am sure, objectively have a very good life, and you wouldn't have to give up anything or anyone. Your loved ones would be saved, and you would live forever with them."

"And nothing you've worked for, all these years, would come to pass?"

"No," Merlin said. "It wouldn't. That's the catch, with free will."

"So you wouldn't, I don't know, smite me right here to make sure that didn't happen?"

"As you are aware, that is not my favored method. Nor indeed could I perform such a drastic action without unbalancing my own scales, and potentially unleashing something even worse. If you said no, that you did not want the scales back and you rejected the role of _universus_ for good _,_ I would have to do nothing but sit here and let you go. Call it passivity if you wish, or cowardice. Perhaps it is. I've been destroyed and imprisoned once, and I am far from infallible. If you and the others hadn't showed up tonight, it's entirely possible that Nimue could have succeeded in getting Killian to kill me. But I have lived in the storm a long time, a very long time. When I move, I am as a leviathan, breaking waves on the face of the deep. Such waves cannot help but drown whoever they sweep across. And by now, I think I have more than enough on my conscience to want to avoid another one."

Emma shot a sidelong glance at the sorcerer, but Merlin's head was down, face shadowed, so she couldn't see his expression. Perfect immortality such as his, enduring for thousands of years, lonesome and impenetrable as a standing stone. . . perhaps the idea of death, of lying down at last, of resting, had not sounded so very terrible. She felt a strange sort of grief heavy in her chest, sweet and painful and unbearable, listening to the space and silence and darkness around them, this place just a step removed from the world. So close to likewise being able to make it all stop, one way or the other, as if they were in the space between the ticks of a clock, or the grains of sand in an hourglass. Time was not something that vampires customarily had to worry about, or wonder if there would be enough of it. But she was. She did.

She knew.

"I. . ." she began, trailed off, and had to start over. "I am the _universus._ I have to see this through to the end, whatever that is. And I can't buy my own future by giving up everything we've been fighting for. I. . . I want the scales back. That's my choice. My destiny."

Merlin lifted his head. She thought there was something almost startled in his eyes, as if even now, a man who had lived half his very long life wandering in visions of the future hadn't quite expected that. Then he smiled. "So be it," he said. "They are yours."

Emma glanced around the dark, wet rock, as if expecting to discover them wedged down a crevice, but didn't see anything. "Well?"

"You will have them," Merlin repeated. "When it's time."

"What, like the sword of Godric Gryffindor? You really _do_ like Harry, don't you?"

"The best stories always share a kernel of deeper truth among them, something we all recognize when we see it. Even when it comes to magic, and whimsy, and imagination, and other things that the world likes to count as of lesser importance. But yes, I do quite enjoy the books. The films rather slaughtered poor Ron Weasley, though, among other things."

Caught off guard, Emma laughed. "So, being clairvoyant, did you get to know the ending of the series before it was published, unlike us poor saps who had to actually wait for book seven?"

"No. I don't see into every mind as if into an open door. Besides, discovering the surprise of the ending is the point of reading the story." Merlin got to his feet. "You should be getting back."

"And you're not coming, I take it?" Emma felt a bit like a student driver asked to take the wheel without supervision for the first time. "Shouldn't I feed on you one more time, just in case?"

"If you're hungry, or need extra strength for the return journey, then by all means. But your power no longer depends on me. As you said, you are the _universus._ It's within you now."

"Are you sure?"

Merlin smiled. "Trust yourself."

"It's not my strong suit, but. . . I'll try." Emma surreptitiously attempted to see if she felt any difference, had developed the ability to, say, shoot Force lightning from her fingertips, but nothing jumped out at her. Once more, she had to ask. "Are you absolutely certain there's no other way to do this? Some spell you read about once in the Magical New York Times and forgot? Anything?"

"No," Merlin said gently. "There's not. Good luck, Emma Swan."

"Thanks, I guess." Emma eyed the black water unenthusiastically, trying to work up the motivation to immerse herself in it again. "And you can't just snap your fingers and send me back to London either?"

"You have to return. The hero always does."

That jolted her. She still wasn't used to thinking of herself that way, wasn't sure she merited the designation, but decided not to argue. "Am I going to see you again?"

"Perhaps," Merlin said. "Perhaps not. As of now, you have what you need from me. But if it comes to a battle, before the end. . . you have made your choice, what you're willing to face and fight for, and if need be, die for. It may be that the time comes for me to do the same."

Emma looked at him again for a long moment, then nodded. She wasn't sure what to do – hugging him felt a bit too intimate, as well as not her style, and a handshake rather dryly formal, as if they had just concluded a routine business meeting and were off to inform the shareholders of the new vision for the company. Sensing her dilemma, Merlin said, "It's all right. You can let go of me now. And this time, don't second-guess yourself. Don't look back."

"Okay." There was an unexpected lump in her throat, and she had to briefly glance away. "I guess I'm. . . I'm on my way."

With that, she walked to the edge of the rock, gingerly dipped one foot and then the other into the water, and grimaced, lowering herself in. Merlin stood watching her, robes stirred in the breath of some unfelt wind, looking very much part of the ancient cave himself, which was after all entirely fitting. She took another long breath for luck, and ducked her head under.

Emma stroked down, feeling something shiver and stretch around her as if to the point of snapping, until she knew that if she surfaced again and tried to ask him one last question, she would just bang her head on the low ceiling and the mysterious, glittering chamber would be entirely gone. She swam hard, wondering how much time had passed, if it was any at all; the force of the incoming tide seemed to have lessened, at least, and the water was almost still. After the initial shock of cold, the coolness was almost pleasant, and she wriggled through a narrow aperture and out the other side, feeling the depth start to recede, until she felt her feet touch bottom, and she washed out with the next wave onto a narrow, rocky spit of beach that looked to be on the far side of the headland. It wasn't the entrance she had come in, at least, and squinting at the moon, which was lower on the horizon than it had been, she supposed it had been maybe two or three hours, counting whatever time had been spent in the face-off with Nimue and Killian beforehand. _Is he all right?_ Had everyone gotten safely to. . . wherever they were going, since Killian's house might be compromised by Liam inadvertently letting Gold in on their secrets? Was a massive supernatural war already raging in the streets of London, depending on where Nimue had decided to address herself after leaving the last party?

There seemed nothing left to do but find out. Wondering how she was going to get back to the city in any reasonable time – the only option being running, which at vampire speed would still take a few hours – Emma shook herself, trying to replicate the gesture she had seen Merlin make to dry her off. She couldn't tell if it had any measurable effect on her state of dampness, and sighed; were her _universus_ powers supposed to be another thing that appeared at the Proper Moment, or did they not consider small-time spells like this worth the effort if she was probably supposed to kick the bucket anyway? Maybe she just needed more practice, but that also would have to wait, and she tilted her head back, looking for a route or a walkway up the cliffs. A little moonlight climb shouldn't be much, after the night she'd already had. Or just a –

"Good lord, darling, _there_ you are. I've been marching about everywhere. I thought I would actually have to go underground, and we all know _that_ would be heinous."

Emma's head jerked up, briefly unable to identify who was speaking, having a confused impression that it was one of the family back to look for her – until she caught sight of the figure mincing over the rocks in high-heeled black boots, a flash of green in the emerald brooch at the throat. Zelena sprang over the largest boulders, landed on her feet like a cat, and straightened up with a winning smile, which altered into a vaguely miffed expression as she took in Emma's current dishevelment. "You're soaked. Whatever did those nasty people do to you?"

"Z – Zelena." Emma took a step backward. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, what do you think?" Zelena seemed baffled that she had to ask. "I got wind of _quite_ the to-do happening here, and you caught in the middle of it, so of course I was going to go search for my poor little girl! What sort of mummy do you think I _am?"_

"I. . ." Somehow, she had never imagined that the first person she saw would be her insane vampire dam, who nonetheless seemed to have a genuine interest, however twisted, in actually being her parent. And Emma, as she had discovered on that night back in Scarsdale where she'd bluffed the terrible trio into going to London in the first place, wasn't completely immune to it. "I, um, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine now. I'll just be going."

"Oh, no, no, no." Zelena unpinned her stylish black cape and draped it around Emma's shoulders, herding her out of the wind and into the shelter of the cliffs. "I'll get you warm. Then I'll pop you back to Arthur's place, and you can have a snack and a noddle. It's _very_ nice, you'll like it. We can still go shopping later, if you want. Arthur has enough money, we could have Harrod's all to ourselves. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

"Look, Zelena. I'm not really the shopping-and-spa-date type." Emma did her best to keep her tone reasonable and pleasant, even if there was never any way to tell what would set the older vampire off. "And you know, I have a lot of things on my plate. If you wanted to spend time with me, you'd have to help me with what I was doing."

"What, wasting your time with humans?" Zelena rolled her eyes. "How boring. My idea sounds so much better. If we got matching mani-pedis, would you want aquamarine, jade, seafoam green, or pale mint?"

"Not humans, but it doesn't matter. Listen to me, Nimue is playing you. She's not going to share power with you, she's using you and Arthur because she thinks you're dupes and pawns, and she'll destroy you when she's done. She's not going to give you some life where you're all-powerful and provided for and pampered, or whatever she's promised to make you go along with it. She's going to kill anyone in her way, and that includes you."

Zelena blinked, clearly not expecting that. Then her eyes narrowed. "Even if that was true, how on earth would you know it, anyway?"

Emma opened her mouth, not entirely certain where it _had_ come from, now that Zelena asked. Just that she had a very clear sense of it, not quite hers but undeniable, and she suddenly wondered if it had come from Killian, if she'd picked it up when she'd fed on him back at the cave, trying to siphon Nimue's influence out of him. If it was something Nimue had told _him,_ she might have thus acquired it as well; it was hard to predict what imprints you got out of any particular feed. In any event, she knew it was the case, and even without it, it would have been her general impression anyway. You didn't go to all this trouble because you were expecting to peaceably share ultimate power with two dangerous rivals when you were done. Zelena and Arthur might have already suspected it, but needed to remain close to Nimue to have any chance to pre-emptively betray her first and seize it for themselves. How exactly they were going to do that was less certain, but seeing as Zelena and Nimue had been working together in some fashion since at least the attacks on Harvard, perhaps she thought she knew enough to outsmart her. It would, however, be a highly convenient way for Nimue to identify anyone who could pose a threat to her or who might know more than was useful: present herself openly and see who else thought ultimate power sounded like a great idea. Keep them close, get what she could, make sure they didn't do anything regrettable while out from supervision, and then dispose of them.

Seeing Zelena still pouting at her, she shrugged off the wrap and handed it back, shivering as the cold wind caught at her. "Thanks, but I really need to go. I'll just – "

"Keep it." Zelena got up, apparently intending to follow her. "Heaven knows my stupid sister can't be trusted to take care of you properly. And the rest of that tedious lot – darling, do you really have to keep hanging around with them? They're all so depressing, and they have so many issues. Here's a better idea: you and I forget about all of them, Nimue included, and go back to America. I don't like it here, they drive on the wrong side of the road and it's _always_ raining and all the men look like inbred mole rats with terrible haircuts – the films really get it wrong about how attractive they're supposed to be, because they're not. I've got a place in Salem all fixed up, you'd like it. You can have your own big bedroom that overlooks the bay, I'd decorate it however you wanted. I'd even mind my p's and q's if it was really such a bother that I snacked on an oblivious delivery boy now and then. Doesn't that sound nice? Doesn't it?"

Emma hesitated. It didn't, of course, but she could hear something close to naked pleading in Zelena's voice, and it unsettled her. Not because she was tempted to give into it, but because she had always resented Zelena for making her a vampire against her will, and now when she had finally accepted that it was who she was, that she might have to give it up and she didn't want to, she was suddenly no longer sure how to relate to her. She obviously was not about to take her to her bosom as confidante and friend, especially since she had observed in the past that every time someone gave Zelena an inch, she took a mile, still and always out for herself above all. But she could hear enough echoes of her former self, someone utterly alone in the world begging someone not to leave her, to give her a chance for them to build a life together, that it wasn't merely as easy as walking away and never looking back. Some part of her even wanted to turn around, hold out her arms, and tell her vampire mother that she forgave her, that it didn't matter, that they had to put the past behind them and start over afresh. It would be a lie, but not as much as before, and if she could manipulate Zelena with it, find out what Arthur was doing, anything else about Nimue they knew, any chance to –

And yet. For better or for worse, Emma couldn't do that. Could not reach in, take hold of what seemed to be Zelena's sole redeeming quality – that she loved Emma, in her dysfunctional way, and wanted to do what she imagined to be right by her – and willfully and permanently destroy it. Especially not in such a cold-blooded fashion, something that she knew first-hand would be the worst thing she could do, and expect to call it justified in the larger name of the cause. Zelena was a generally terrible person, that could not be denied. But there were still boundaries. There was still right and wrong. And when she accepted her destiny and made the choice to take the scales back, even knowing what waited for her at the end, it wasn't to do this instead.

"Zelena," she said after a moment. "I'm willing to try to have a relationship with you, once all of this is over. But it's going to be on my terms, and taking into account the people that I care about, and if you can't accept that, this is over before it begins. And right now, they're probably in danger, and I need to get back to them and find out what's going on. You can help me, if you can find it in your heart. If not, I advise you not to get in my way."

Zelena opened and shut her mouth. For once, she appeared to have nothing to say, looking taken aback and confused. It was doubtful whether she had enough of a conscience to feel ashamed, but instead of putting up a fight, she just glanced down. Looked, for a vampire as old and dangerous as she was, rather small, silhouetted in the moonlight with the wind whipping the tufts of grass at her feet. Then, without another word, she nodded once and walked away.

* * *

It was very late, sometime in the wee hours, when Emma finally made it back to London, having vivid memories of her escape from Salem after Zelena had made her and Lily hunt Aurora through the woods. This had been much further, close to two hundred and fifty miles, and yet while she was starting to limp as she entered the quiet precincts of Russell Square, she wasn't running nearly as ragged and footsore as she had after the mere twenty-something mile sprint to Boston. She _did_ feel different, stronger, and the English countryside between here and Tintagel had whisked away in a blur, eaten up with long, swift strides carrying her at close to equal velocity as a high-speed passenger railway. It was only now that she slowed, trying to sense if Killian's house had been compromised, if Gold might have sent minions in there to attack it and possibly lie in wait for her. But that would definitely break the "can't force the _universus_ to work for you" part of the rules, and besides, from as far as she had seen, Gold didn't _have_ minions – apart from Liam, that was. He made his werewolf slave do his dirtiest work, and handled the rest himself. Besides, he was clearly arrogant enough to think she'd realize she had no choice but to return to him soon, and he might well be right. Just not in the way she thought.

Sensing no apparent traps, Emma groaned up the steps of Killian's house and knocked, hoping someone would be around to answer it. This was at the end of the day for supernaturals, so they should be still up, unless they had all gone back to Tintagel to rescue her and they'd crossed paths somewhere in the middle without realizing it. But after a moment she heard footsteps, a bolt shot back, and Mary Margaret opened the door, looking sleep-deprived in the extreme. Her dark-circled eyes widened in shock when she saw who it was. "Emma? Is that really you?"

"Yes," Emma said, starting to feel the exhaustion setting in now that she was no longer moving. "Is it safe for you to be answering the door? I could have been Gold. Where is everyone?"

"Killian and Henry went back to look for you," Mary Margaret said, eyeing her concernedly. "Regina and Will are going to be all right, but they were pretty badly hurt, they had to stay behind. Liam is – well, he's taking his own measures to be sure Gold can't get back into his head tonight, and David is trying to find out what's going on with Nimue. There has been heavy supernatural activity all night, apparently. It looks like she may be trying to start a war in earnest, and. . ." She hesitated, realized she was being rude, and held the door open. "Come in."

Emma crossed the threshold and step-staggered inside, following Mary Margaret down the hall. "Can you call Henry? I don't want the two of them out if things have been hot all night."

"Yes, I'll let them know they can come back. He took a daylight shot with him, just in case."

"Daylight shots are hell even on older vampires, Henry couldn't tolerate one as a fledgling," Emma said, alarmed. "It normally takes at least a few years. Did Killian know?"

"I don't think so, it was a bit of a blur. But Henry did say that as the biological child of the _universus,_ and the blood child of two considerably powerful vampires including an Old One, he was willing to bet he had extra, well, bite." Mary Margaret showed her into the kitchen and sat her down. "What happened? Are you all right? Did you get the scales back?"

"I'm. . . I'm fine. I have them, just not with me right now. Just call Henry, okay?"

Mary Margaret paused, then nodded, locating the house phone (evidently Killian was one of the hundred people in the world who still had a landline) as her own mobile probably wouldn't work in England, and dialing Henry's number. Emma heard her speaking quietly, probably assuring them that she had been found and they could come home, as she stared at the table, feeling her eyes going in and out of focus. She very desperately wanted to go to bed and sleep for a long time, but she wouldn't, not until she saw them arrive and knew they were safe. As well, there was still that slender hope that if she did, events of the recent past would prove to be just a dream, and she didn't have to face what she knew was coming – but that was childish, dangerous, defensive. It was going to happen, and she had to face up to it. Didn't know whether to tell them or not. There was, of course, still the possibility that Gold and Nimue lost their power and their eternal life, and she didn't. But that was the kind of possibility that existed only in minor technicalities and miniscule percentages, the same kind you had of being in a plane crash or being hit by lightning or eaten by a shark: it _could_ happen, but it was statistically so unlikely as to make worrying about it something to occupy only the most paranoid of minds. This, ironically, was the opposite. She was almost certainly going to die, not in a physical way (she recalled Merlin saying something about that a while ago) but in a permanent one nonetheless, and there was nothing she could do to escape it.

She sat there in a daze for some unknown amount of time, until the front door rattled and Killian and Henry, both looking very windblown and tired, came stumping into the kitchen. But their faces both lit up when they saw her, and they rushed to her, kneeling at either side of her chair. Henry said, "Mom?" and Killian said, "Swan? Love? What the devil happened? Are you all right?"

"It's a long story." Emma managed a weary smile. "I made it out, that's the important thing for now. Where's David? Do you know what's going on in the streets?"

Killian dragged a hand through his tousled hair, looking grim. "Henry called David on our way back, and his report was not good at all. What's going on is bloody anarchy, or at least something that will be that very soon. Nimue's been rabble-rousing quite spectacularly, blaming the vampires for Will getting attacked by Gold, and blaming the werewolves for. . ." He trailed off briefly. "For Liam supposedly willfully betraying us all to the bastard. Playing it as if it was something he wanted to do, rather than something that happened by accident because he wasn't strong enough to keep Gold out of his head after all. It looks like she wants a full-blown war, and she's finally on the brink of getting one."

Emma had to take a moment to absorb that blow. She had fancied that she might have a little time, some space to come to terms with what she had to do, but clearly she did not. Nimue had evidently used her early exit from the cave to the most profitable advantage imaginable, getting London whipped up into a supernatural frenzy where all it would take was one good spark to get the war underway, the one they had tried so hard and so long to avoid just for knowing that she didn't have to do much of the work, just awake enough old hatreds and old prejudices to let unfortunate nature take the rest of its course. Emma had no doubt that Nimue had also gotten excellent mileage out of Killian Jones the wolf-killer emerging from seclusion, driving wedges through whatever bonds had been made, inducing everyone to mistrust their friends from the other side of the supernatural tracks. Fomenting the kind of chaos that people like her thrived on, that they needed to survive. What she meant to do once it got started, Emma didn't know, but it couldn't be good, obviously. Let things get nicely bloody for a while, then swoop in and promise to save them, to restore peace, if they all did what she said?

She leaned back in her chair, feeling very old herself, and very tired. Looking at Killian, she said, "Can we go upstairs? It's been the hell of a day and night, I'm completely exhausted."

He met her eyes, took her meaning, and nodded. They got up just as David was coming up the front walk, looking equally wiped; with Regina and Will out of commission, and Liam clearly not a good person to throw into the middle of angry Teeth and Tails spoiling for a fight, he had had to take on the burden and the danger, by himself, one human man against the full supernatural fury that was building to an inescapable breaking point. Emma gripped his hand quickly, making sure he was mostly in one piece, then followed Killian up the stairs, down the hall to something that must be the master bedroom, and shut the door behind them, leaning against it for a moment. Then she turned around, and without a word, went into his arms.

Killian held her tightly, hands cupping her face, as they kissed for a long, silent moment, turning their heads slightly, parting a fraction, and diving in again, hungry and devouring. An instant later their hands moved to begin shucking their damp and dirty clothes, leaving them pooled on the floor, as he lifted her up and carried her to the great four-poster bed, laying her atop the quilts and entering her in almost the next breath of motion. She understood his haste and desperation, felt it in her own soul, that need to know that the other was real, was there, that they didn't quite have to let go after all, not yet, not yet. She watched his eyes, half-fearing to see the blackness come back over them and him to tumble into Nimue's thrall again; she didn't know how exactly that worked, had already feared that he might be bound to Nimue the way Liam was to Gold. But for now, she didn't see it, and she needed him, she needed him like flesh and bone and blood and soul and sinew, and she rocked up into him, wrapping one arm around his neck and sliding the other hand to the small of his back, hitching him into her hard and deep, over and over. She brought her knees up, bracing her heels, wanting it rougher, pushing the boundaries of both of their limits of self-control, as he growled low in his throat and nipped her hard enough to draw blood. Both of them were wordlessly testing each other, feeling out the cracks, pushing against them and then pulling back. Almost too far, almost too much, almost too hard, and yet still not enough. All the time she felt slipping away, as if those hands of the clock were ticking, whirring too fast like a film on fast-forward, as if all the sand had fallen through the glass at once. All the nights she might lose. All the mornings, the days, the weeks, the months, the years, the centuries. The entirety of the future with him that she was going to have to sacrifice. She had never known that something that had no physical form could weigh so devastatingly heavy.

Killian uttered a faint sound as he reached his release, dragging her over the edge with him a few moments later, and they lay entangled, heaving for breath that was not strictly needed, but that they felt the lack of nonetheless. She stroked the back of his neck, memorizing every inch of him with her hands and arms and legs and other places, how he felt in her, stretching her, filling her, completing her, making them whole. How he tasted when he slowly lifted his head to kiss her, musing and thorough. _Hold onto me, never let me go._

At last he rolled off her, landing atop the tousled quilts, which he pulled out and spread over them. Emma pressed herself against him, pulling him against her body, burying her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, not wanting to waste a minute, one fraction of space, any time anywhere else than exactly here. His arms came around her as well, a shelter and a bulwark, until she could very well almost believe that nothing and no one could reach them. Even as the sun was starting to rise on what could be a full-blown supernatural war before it set, and a fate that not even his love could save her from, because she knew in her bones that there was no other way but this.

Vaguely, Emma wondered just when she had become comfortable imagining that what Killian felt for her, and she for him, was indeed love – and furthermore, now that she had started, if she could bear to stop. Didn't want to turn away from it, even though by all rights, she should. But if she was going to have to face something far greater than that, perhaps she couldn't run away from this any longer either. Yet she had already faced enough world-rattling decisions for one day, and she didn't want to say anything to break the spell right now, to disturb their equilibrium, the quiet of the air and the sanctuary of the bed. He was here, and so was she, and it was everything, and it would never, never be enough.

"Killian," she murmured at last, into his chest. "I need to tell you something."

"Aye?" He shifted his position to kiss her hair, clearly on the verge of passing out as the sun came up (it had, to say the least, been the hell of a twenty-four hours for him as well) but willing himself to stay awake, to stay with her. "What's that, love?"

"I met Merlin," Emma said drowsily. "In the cave. He's not dead, you didn't kill him, you got out from under what Nimue thought she could make you do. We talked, and. . . I'll have the scales back when I need them. When it's time. We still have a chance to defeat her and Gold."

"I knew you could," he said, voice soft and ragged with both his pride in her, and his bitter shame at himself, for being the one whose weakness had put her in the position of potentially losing them. "I knew you wouldn't fail. But something else is bothering you, love, I can feel it. What did our useless bloody sorcerer friend say to you?"

"He. . . wasn't useless, actually. He was quite honest. He told me what the price is. For me using the scales." Emma faltered. "What I'm going to have to do."

"And?" Killian's blue eyes were dark with concern, brows knitted, as he looked intently into her face. "Emma, what is it?"

"It's. . . I'm. . ." The words were there, on her tongue, hot and heavy as molten lead. She wanted nothing more than to spit them out, to be brave enough, to be free. And yet. And yet. Say it now, and end the dream. Wake up, and go out to die.

"It's not that bad," she said, eyes on his chest, tracing his nipple with her finger, up the line of the pectoral, to the hollow of his throat. "I'll be able to do it. And if I can get to Nimue in time, if we can stop the war before it starts, then I have to do it today."


	25. Chapter 25

**London, 1916**

The low grey light slanted through the window, casting pale shadows, as Killian Jones considered the effect, cursed the meteorological misfortunes of this place, and decided that while it was hardly the equivalent of stepping out into the full, burning sun (neither of those terms being applicable to the variety of sun customarily encountered in England) he could at least take solace in the fact that this was the fifth straight morning he had done it, and as there had not resulted either a very long nap or a smoking heap of ash, he might be nearly at the strength needed to proceed. Even if not, the moment had come. Ever since the city had heard of the uprisings in Ireland, coming together over Easter to try to throw off the chains of English tyranny, he had decided that this Irishman, however long away – he hadn't been back to the country of his birth since he left it two centuries ago, seeing nothing to be gained in doing so – would have to do his own part here. _Videlicet,_ killing Robert Gold at last and for good.

Killian turned away from the window, stalking across the floor and then testing how fast he could flash back to the other side of the room. He had killed and fed on a wolf last night, a strong one, so he shouldn't be suffering any weakness in that department, and told himself that this would be the last. Once he had done for Gold, he would have avenged the wrong altogether, both Milah and Liam. Wouldn't need to keep killing wolves to tide himself over, to do something, anything to make it stop hurting, to lash out at something else than his scabby, blackened husk of a self. They hadn't managed to start a new pack in London this entire time, the longest lacuna in recorded supernatural history that the Tails had no foothold at all in the city. He had had to go as far as Winchester last night to find one, and even that was still regarded as unwisely close by the English alphas. Any other regional differences among them had been put aside in their burning hatred of him, and he didn't plan to hide. They knew well enough where he lived. If they wanted to come by and kill him, if they were brave enough, he wouldn't stop them. His head on a spike, the rest of him dismembered, burned, and scattered to the four winds sounded about an appropriate punishment.

Having satisfied himself of his physical prowess, he turned to his weapon. The rest of Europe was slaughtering each other in the no-man's-land of the Western Front and its trenches, with mustard and chlorine gas and Gatling guns and barbed wire and mortars, all the monumental and pointless carnage that resulted when twentieth-century man had all the newest and most modern methods of killing each other, and still an eighteenth-century notion of how to do so. In contrast to such sleek, mechanized murder, his own armament was far simpler. Merely a slender polished stake of finest Lebanese cedar, three feet long and of middling weight, designed to be fought with as part sword, part javelin, and with a tip intended to splinter once the killing blow had been struck. He had practiced the particular motion a hundred times, a thousand. To stab Gold just deep enough to reach the heart, but not to strike it. Stop just short, while the cedar splinters worked slowly through his body and the core of the stake – solid silver – tormented him with its nearness. Killian having had so long to contemplate, it was likely the most slow and painful way to kill a vampire that had ever been invented, and he could not wield the bloody thing bare-handed; he had to wear gloves. Even then, he felt reeling and nauseous if he practiced with it too long. He had taken to training with a replica of the exact same shape and weight, made of ordinary hardwood with no silver, so the only damage he could do was if he got too carried away on a twirl and stabbed himself in the heart like an idiot. That being no danger, it allowed him to increase the hours of training, while the real, lethal item lay locked inside its case. Today, like one of the Japanese samurai preparing for his own death, it was finally time to open it.

Killian allowed himself a smile, though the effect on anyone observing it would have been the last thing from comforting or pleasant. Fond as he was of the black leather that he had come to consider his signature ensemble, he had also left it off; he needed full range of motion and no extra weight, and as even a vampire gentleman could be unpleasantly inconvenienced in a vulnerable area by an overzealously tight trouser fit, he had elected for loose grey serge, tucked into black boots. A white shirt with an open neck, sleeves rolled over his forearms, to be sure of nothing snagging or getting in his way or slowing down his stroke. Not even any of the necklaces or rings he had accumulated over the centuries like a jackdaw, taken from the wolves he killed. Other vampires would have regarded them as boastful trophies of war, testaments to their fearsome nature. For Killian, it was different. He couldn't put an exact number on how many he had murdered, and he was afraid that without them, he might forget altogether. This way, if not their faces, at least their shades (so much as supernaturals had immortal souls, it being a popular topic of enquiry recently) were kept close to him, reminding him who he was. Now there was no more need for them. In this, at the end, he knew.

Inventories complete, Killian returned to the window. He had not selected the date of Gold's assassination from patriotic sentiment alone. The humans he had mesmered to spy on him reported that Gold had recently completed work on a particular project – something related to his book, _Liber incarcerati,_ and his ever-devoted obsession of making its horrifying vision a reality. It had taken enough time and effort that he was in a serious lull with his powers at the moment, thus rendering him the weakest he had been in several hundred years, and if he was allowed to rest and recover, he might reach a place where he was completely indestructible. It had to be now; Killian simply could not afford to wait any longer. After a hundred and eighty-two years, Milah and Liam would finally have their justice. Then, soon, he'd see them again. Assuming supernaturals were dealt the same as humans after their death (another one for the theologians), but even if so, they would have arrived at one destination in the afterlife, for the good people, and he was decidedly destined for a different one. Perhaps he'd get a glimpse of them, as he was dying. Just one, to know they were safe. Then he would close his eyes, and accept his fate.

He was just about to open the case containing his stake, standing over it with key in hand, when a knock at the door startled him badly; consumed as he was in the ritual of his last morning, he hadn't even heard anyone coming. A brief and ludicrous part of him wondered if it was one of Gold's minions, along to formally throw a gauntlet at his feet, but Gold didn't know this was coming. And he could not fathom who would be dropping by the lair of one of the most infamous and dangerous vampires in London, unless it was another distressed young woman begging him to turn her and save her from some disagreeable marriage her awful relations had cooked up. That happened on occasion. He always told them he was terribly sorry for their misfortune, sent them away, and shut the door. Monster or not, he did have standards.

Now, however, Killian strode to answer it, prepared for a trap, for an attack, for something even worse. And when he cracked it open, he discovered to his complete surprise that it was in fact the latter, something worst of all. None other, in fact, than his sister.

"Regina." Only the barest glaze of wintry politeness iced his voice. He hadn't even laid eyes on her in several years, their ambitions and their ruthlessness becoming ever more incompatible, and he was extremely skeptical, to say the least, of this eleventh-hour social call. "To what do I owe the. . . pleasure?"

"You can skip the obsequies, Killian. We both know you don't mean them." She looked amused. Also, as if _she_ certainly did not intend to be fighting dread dark lords any time soon, or anything else that would muss her highly fashionable couture. In defiance of the custom for wasp-waisted gowns with severe buttoned necklines, she wore some frilled and fanciful confection of slashed blue silk and black taffeta, bouffant sleeves and a plunging bodice revealing far more than a proper Edwardian gentlewoman would have considered in any way acceptable (though poor fat Bertie had been dead for six years and considering _his_ libidinous adventures, would not at all approve of any style of clothing for women that made it more difficult to sleep with them). Her hair was pinned up, her lips painted red, and her fanged smile was quite truly terrifying. Whatever initial push he had given her to accept her new nature, she had then dived in headfirst on her own accord. Even looked to Gold as a mentor and teacher for a few years, until that nasty business with Zelena. Now she was entirely her own loose cannon, and one that _might_ swing with Killian, but far more probably against him. Bloody hell, what did she want?

"You misunderstand me. That wasn't actually a rhetorical question." He tilted his head, surveying her sharply. "It's the daylight hours, and you're not nearly so old as to be able to be awake on your own. Shouldn't you be unconscious in your luxury coffin somewhere?"

Regina looked at him disdainfully, closing her parasol with a snap and allowing him to see the silver tip. "They're testing out a new medicine, you know. Something that allows vampires to stay awake during the day. It tastes like hell and makes you feel even worse, and yet it's still not as unpleasant as having to use it to come see you. For that matter, aren't you going to invite me in? It's most impolite to visit over the threshold."

He stepped back, teeth gritted, to give her a gallant bow and an offered hand. "Please, sis. By all means, come in and visit."

She smirked, taking his hand with her own lace-gloved one and stepping inside. Then she came to a halt, glancing around at his bare, dismal rooms, and clucked disapprovingly. "Jack the Ripper's murdered women of the evening lived in better lodgings than this. Unless _you_ were the Ripper, and that's where you got the idea? I was under the impression, however, that you had more of a taste for wolf."

"I wasn't," Killian said coolly. "As a matter of fact, I caught the man in Whitechapel one night, and killed him myself."

"Really?" Regina arched an eyebrow. "Whyever didn't you inform the newspapers? They were going mad over a dozen potential culprits a day, wondering where he'd disappeared to and if he was still roaming free. You could have been a national hero."

"Please. They don't bloody pin Victoria Crosses on vampires. Nobody needed to know. I stopped him, that's all that matters."

"Disliked the competition to be London's most feared thing that went bump in the night?" Regina perched on the only available item of furniture, a rickety old chair, as if determined not to let too much of this place get on her. "Town not big enough for the both of you? Or had he just murdered your favorite whore?"

"Is there some purpose to this visit?" Killian took care to show extra teeth when he smiled. "You see, I'm rather in the middle of something. Terribly busy, loads to do, and – "

"I know," Regina interrupted. "In fact, that _is_ my purpose. I know what you're planning to do. And I'm here to tell you that you can't."

" _Can't?"_ He pushed off the wall, sauntering closer with studied coolness, but a threat lurked barely veiled beneath. "As in can't physically accomplish it, or shouldn't do it for conveniently undisclosed reasons that benefit you? Because if so, love, you're wrong on both counts."

"You are _such_ an idiot." Regina rolled her eyes heavenward. "Whatever you think you're going to do, you can't. He won't die, or at least not for good. And before you say something even stupider and use up valuable air that could be better employed by, I don't know, the rats in the floorboards, it isn't because I still care for him, _or_ because I have any interest in your well-being. It's because you simply cannot kill him, and who knows what you'll unleash if you try."

"And you know this how?" He took another step. "Some useful condition or caveat that he disclosed to you about his immortality?"

Regina hesitated. "No."

"Liar."

"Whatever I do know was forty years ago and likely far out of his calculations now. And even if I knew for certain, I wouldn't tell you, because you have nothing to offer me in return. It wouldn't be a fair trade."

"So – what? You've come by to tell me to not even try? That's very bloody fascinating, and I've given it due consideration. My decision is to ignore it completely. Time to hop along and play with your little evil tea set."

"Idiot," Regina said again, almost as if in awe that one man could contain within himself such a vast and impressive vacuum of knowledge or reason or restraint. "But I have to ask, if you _are_ going to try, what are you hoping to accomplish? Overthrow Gold to take his place? I want to know, you see, if I have to kill you next."

"What?"

Regina smiled. "Call it fair warning. I don't care what you do to Gold. But if you have your sights set on becoming him, you might cause problems for me, and I'd take that as a threat. I'm going back to America, you see. Boston. The queen there is old and inefficient, and I intend to challenge her for power. Once I have command of the city, who knows what else could follow? And if you plan on doing something similar in London, such a path could lead to. . . conflict."

"Don't worry," Killian said loathingly. "I have no plans to make a play for his power after he's dead. I just want him there, and have only wanted that for three bloody human lifetimes now. If your concern in calling is to ascertain whether your rise to the top might be inconsiderately interrupted, you have your answer. I wish you well as far away from me as you care to go. Sail on the White Star Line across the Atlantic, I hear they have a smashing reputation."

"If by that you mean into icebergs, you're correct." Regina leaned back. "In fact, I was going to offer you the chance to come with me. To work for me. I could use some help in establishing myself, and you must be tired of murdering werewolves and brooding about your poor life choices. Leave Gold behind and do something that might lead you to a future. My future."

"What – you mean you and me, together?" Killian barked an incredulous laugh. "And who took such pathos and umbrage in reminding me that she was my sister?"

"No, you cretin," Regina snapped. "I don't mean 'our' future in some ridiculous romantic sense. I mean exactly what I said, _my_ future, since between the two of us, I'm the one who has one. You're good at killing and not much else, and I have a need for someone with that skill while I make a name for myself in Boston. My mother's dead, did you know? A few years ago. She can't stop me anymore. Can't hold me back. I intend to build everything my way, and now I can. You would do well to be on the right side of it."

Killian laughed again, turning away. "You are too much," he said. "Bloody too much to even contemplate, much less listen to with a straight face. What do I get out of it, to be patted on the head? To sit up and beg for treats? Perhaps you thought to chain me up in the yard and make me bark at intruders? If it's a dog you want, I'm sure there are plenty of strays in Boston."

"If I wanted a dog, I'd have approached the wolves, if I could find any that you'd left alive." Regina eyed him flatly. "As for what you get out of it, I thought it was obvious: you get to survive. And I think I know you well enough to guess that's the one thing you value over your revenge. It's a waste, you know. It's a waste."

"What, that I should unprofitably die instead of doing your dirty work?" His voice rose almost to the brink of a shout. "You don't care if I'd do things a hundred times worse, as long as it got your cold little hands on all the strings you want to pull, imagine yourself doing as deftly as Gold? God knows I hate the man, but at least he's good at being bad. You, on the other hand, you're just a poseur and an imbecile. You've been flailing about in some idea of being a supernatural force to be reckoned with, a queen in waiting, but you're just a sad little – "

"Oh, because you have a monopoly on tragedy?" They were almost nose to nose now, hissing like a pair of alley-cats, as she stared at him with slitted eyes. "Only you are allowed to do awful things because you lost someone you loved, is that it? If my mother hadn't killed Daniel – "

"– at least I know who I am, know where this is leading, while you're asking me to serve as your bloody flunkey and _slave –_ "

"It _is_ a waste!" Regina screamed, loud enough to drown him out, cheeks burning white except for two high spots of hectic color in her cheekbones. "It is! Your brother is long dead, my sister is insane, you lost that drone and I lost the man I loved. If I'm not much mistaken, when I first came to London, you wanted us to be siblings. Now I'm offering you a chance you don't even deserve, and you're just going to throw it away because – "

"Sorry, love." Killian grinned roguishly at her. "The idea of abandoning my life's work and the chance to avenge the gruesome murder of the only two people I ever loved, in exchange for the opportunity to serve as your stooge and henchman, isn't exactly irresistible. If you wanted what I offered when you came here, you should have taken it then. No longer on the market. Alas."

Regina flinched, ever so slightly. "What if I told you why I don't think Gold can be killed? About the un – someone?"

"Oh, now that's back on the table? As I said. Too late. And if someone stops me from killing him, I'll kill them too. I do not, however, anticipate it being a problem. Nobody has ever made a weapon like mine. Do you want to see it?"

"I have no interest in your toys," Regina said coldly. "All I ask is that if you're planning to leave dangerous things lying around after you're done with your suicide mission, be so kind as to make sure someone else can't get their hands on them."

"I suppose you're quite a bit too young to manage it yourself, otherwise you'd snap it up. But Gold is the only one old and evil enough to misuse it, and once he's gone, there's nobody else for the vampire world to worry about – except for you, in a hundred years or so. Endlessly relieved that I don't plan to be around for that. Now, it's _long_ past time for you to be on your way."

Regina paused, then rose with icy dignity to her feet, smoothing the dust from her lap. "So be it," she said. "I shouldn't be surprised that you're ultimately such a disappointment. Everyone in my life is, after all, and it's taught me that all I need to care about is myself. Find a way to have my own happiness, no matter what, since nothing and nobody else is worth giving a damn about. You and I both know that by now, don't we? So then. This is goodbye. Chase your fool errand to its inevitable end. Go out to die. If at the last moment you change your mind, don't come crawling back to me. We're done."

With that, before he had the chance or wherewithal to answer with the correct calibration of dismissive, sarcastic quip, she turned around, lifting her skirts from the dirty floor. Glided through the door, and vanished through it, without once slowing or looking back.

It closed behind her with a whisper, and she was gone.

* * *

  **London, Present Day**

It was dark in the house, sometime after sunset, when Killian woke. He'd meant to do so earlier, but he had simply been too exhausted and drained, despite his best intentions. He still felt quite a bit less than top form, but as he rolled over and stared at the ceiling, Emma's arm slipped lower on his chest; she was still asleep, nuzzled into his side, a frown remaining etched between her brows even in unconsciousness. Last night, he had instinctively sensed that there was something she wasn't telling him, something important, but he hadn't wanted to pry, hadn't wanted to spoil the wordless joy and relief of their reunion with more questions and interrogations. She was safe, that was all that mattered, and apparently, his catastrophic slip-up with Nimue hadn't been completely fatal. Not through any merit of his own, but because Emma had had the strength to do the necessary thing, to make the hardest choice. God, he did not deserve her, not a single bit. And yet he would fight until the end, and beyond, to keep her.

Killian shifted; he would have gladly lain in bed with her for another few days, but he doubted a bad situation had gotten remotely better while he had been out of it. Emma murmured in her sleep and moved closer, snuggling into him again, and he felt his resolve swiftly weakening, sorely tempted to kiss her awake and have her just one more time, but he couldn't. Instead he nudged her arm off his chest, pressed a feather-light kiss into her palm and folded her fingers over to hold it there, and laid her hand on the covers. Then he rolled out, dressed, and staggered down the stairs to the kitchen.

David, Mary Margaret, Henry, and Regina were sitting at the table, the former two just finishing their dinner and the latter two abstaining, though by the look in Henry's eye, he was going to need a feed soon. Regina was still thoroughly battered from their fight in the cave, and although she was up, it was clear she wasn't ready for any more rough-and-tumble action just yet. On sight of Killian, she folded her arms and looked away. "Planning to go postal on us again, or do you have a warning system installed now?"

"I – I'm not planning on it." He took a seat at the table, fighting the spasm of guilt that twisted his stomach. "Sorry, love. You're right about me. I've always been an idiot."

That startled Regina enough to turn her head fractionally back toward him, although she resisted meeting his eyes. After a moment she said, "Well, I'll live. And I heard Emma retrieved the scales somehow, so you didn't manage to ruin everything. Resist the urge to bite down on any more extremely evil Mothers of Darkness, and we might still have a chance."

Killian was about to flash back that he'd like to see her do so if it was that easy, but resisted. "Where are Will and Liam?"

"They went out," Henry said. "Will's trying to reason with the werewolves, and Liam volunteered to go with him. Said it was his fault, and he had to face up to it. If they learn his story, they'd likely feel pity and outrage on his behalf, instead of blind bloodlust. Failing that, they're trying to stop the wolves from just going after the regular vampires of London indiscriminately. Remind them that Gold and Nimue are the real enemies."

Killian experienced a sickening stab of worry at the thought of Will and Liam wading into the middle of this mess, especially when their fellows might well consider Will a sellout traitor with no self-respect due to his relationship with Killian, and Liam as too long Gold's slave to know anything about being part of a pack, much less trusted to make decisions for the rest of them. "Did they say when they'd be back?"

"No," Henry admitted, "but I don't think there's much we can do about it at the moment. They seemed to feel that the danger was greater if they didn't go, and I'm inclined to agree. Nobody's fired the first shots at Fort Sumter yet, so to speak, but it's not looking good."

Regina jerked, lips tightening, and Henry looked confused. Killian said quietly, "Her fiancé served in the Civil War. Daniel Colter. Survived Gettysburg, came home, and got killed by her mother instead. It's a raw subject."

"Oh." Henry looked abashed, doubtless struck by the fact that what was a harmless historical metaphor for him was of direct and painful personal relevance to his new mother. "Well, I said I'd go with them, but they insisted I stay behind. Didn't think a fledgling vampire and your blood son would be exactly the thing to get the situation calmed down, and didn't want me in the way if it went further south."

Killian frowned, as this did nothing to ease his concerns, but there was indeed not much he could do about it at this juncture. "Do we have any notion of what Nimue hopes to accomplish with all this maneuvering, aside from a rather novel attempt to lower London's ridiculous property prices?" To say the least, having gangs of angry supernaturals rampaging through the streets of a major world city and financial center would have a deleterious effect on both the global economy and the tourist industry. And unlike in the comic-book films, where cities were routinely destroyed at the cost of billions of dollars and then magically rebuilt in a few years, just in time to be leveled again in the sequel, that kind of damage didn't go away overnight. Especially in the twenty-first century, where dangerous individuals with political agendas who intentionally caused death and danger to the general public were better known as terrorists. Taking out somewhere like London would affect the entire world, the entire planet's future. If this was step one of Nimue's plan to do Gold one better, to acquire absolute power in the truest and most terrible of ways, she had made a smashing start to it.

"No." It was David who answered. "She has plenty to gain from another immortal war to end all wars, but it also feels as if she has something else to make a play for. You were the one under her influence and with her in your head. Why don't you tell us?"

"Watch it, human." Regina glared at him. "It's hardly as if he has a bootleg Xerox of her evil manifesto. Good thing too, really."

David shut his mouth, though with a look that clearly said he had not forgotten the incident at the British Museum, and could not be sure that Killian would not mesmer and abandon him again if Nimue should suddenly appear and put in the request. Killian supposed that was no more than he deserved, as it tended to be a bad first impression when you bamboozled someone into forgetting the last few hours, left them in a closed institution where being discovered by security would have gotten them into a great deal of trouble, and then took off with a notably nefarious villain to cause havoc – not even considering the fact that before all this happened, you were trying to get them to accept you as their son's new father. As if following this train of thought, Henry put a hand on David's arm. "It's all right, Dad," he said. "We've seen how powerful Nimue is, what she can make people do. You can still trust him."

David harrumphed, as if to say that he would be the judge of that, thanks, but consented to dial back his baleful stare a few notches. There was a brief silence as everyone thought very hard about what sort of chaos might appeal to Nimue aside from the obvious, but drew a blank. Then they heard footsteps on the stairs, and Emma ducked into the kitchen, wearing one of Killian's old dressing gowns and hair still tousled and stiff with salt. At the sight of the powwow, she raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, did I interrupt something important?"

"Not particularly, love." Killian managed a smile for her. "Just trying to come up with what else Nimue might be after by trying to start a war. Nothing had occurred to us."

"Is that where Will and Liam are?" Emma slid into the chair next to him, and their fingers linked together. "Anyway, it. . . it doesn't matter. If I can find Nimue, I think I know what to do. We have to stop her first before we can go after Gold, so we can't waste time."

Killian glanced sidelong at her, wanting to ask what she hadn't said about the scales, but knowing she wouldn't tell him here with everyone watching. "But if you defeat Nimue, you'll be in exactly the position Gold wants you in. Fully empowered as the _universus_ and able to do whatever wretched ritual he needs to become all-powerful, which seems to involve killing the rest of us. Even assuming you make it through the trial with Nimue, it's too much for Merlin to expect you to defeat two dark ones in a row, alone. Someone else needs to help with Gold."

Regina rolled her eyes. "Let me guess. You?"

"My feelings for the bastard are no secret. If requested, I'd be happy to go after him again – but only if requested. I'm not going to do it if the only purpose would be personal vengeance, and frankly, I think Liam deserves the honor of tearing his throat out more than I do. The three of us – him, me, and you – we could at least slow him down. Weaken him. Then Emma can land whatever coup de grace is needed to finish the job."

"Liam can't keep Gold out of his head," Regina said. "We found that out last night. He'd be just as likely to turn on us or do something to lead Gold to us. And if you went under Nimue's control again – what am I supposed to do, kill you both? It's better for me to do this alone."

"What, as if you're the one who can be trusted to swoop in and dispatch him? You can't match him, love, and you can't bring yourself to permanently end him, let's just be honest. If you don't trust me or Liam to do it, then – "

"There's one other choice," Emma said. "And I'll be the first to admit it's a very long shot, but we're at the point where those might be the only kind we have left. There's a vampire who's older than Gold by about a millennium, very powerful, and able to command the kind of resources to allow him to, say, manipulate Old One registries and set up and frame whoever he wants. And who just might have an incentive to do something about this."

"What?" Regina looked at her in horror. "That's your plan? Ask _Arthur?"_

"You're the one who's been talking to him," Emma pointed out stubbornly. "He _is_ the Potentate. He can make things happen. And he's currently hitched his wagon to Nimue, even though she's the one who destroyed Camelot in the first place. If he can be persuaded to see that she's actually going to destroy England all over again, and then whatever else she can, if he really means anything he says about being the once and future king, maybe he could step up."

"That's a dangerous plan, love," Killian cautioned. "Not to say that you're entirely wrong, but still. And how do you fancy that we'd get an introduction?"

Emma hesitated. "Zelena."

"My _sister?"_ Regina's lips went white. "Oh, this should be good. Please, tell me how you're going to convince her to abandon Nimue, who's given her everything her demented little heart wanted, to take us for vampire tea and cookies with Arthur. Are you completely out of your – "

"Just listen!" Emma said, exasperated. "Zelena came to find me when I got out of the cave last night. She was worried. Nimue _hasn't_ given her the one thing she wants: me. Her methods are completely screwed up, yes, but everything she's done – the attacks on Harvard, the attempt to isolate me from the rest of the supernatural world so I'd have to turn to her, making Lily into a vampire thinking she was giving me a sister, going to London after I told her to – has been about trying to get me to come home with her and live as her daughter. Of course she's doing it wrong, but it's not something she's lying about, or that she's ever tried to hide. I. . . I honestly think if it was a choice between sticking with Nimue or saving me, she'd take the latter option. And that, considering I am the only one who can stop Nimue, could very well end up being life or death for us, and however many other people. Humans and supernaturals alike."

"So you're wagering everyone's safety on the idea that Zelena really does want to play house with you? That she actually loves you?" Regina looked as if she wanted to issue a stronger denial to this heresy, but was still reeling from it even being seriously proposed in the first place. "And what, you'd move in with her and start picking out wallpaper patterns? I can't see it."

"I have no idea, all right?" Emma's hand tightened in Killian's grasp. "I know what it sounds like. But if this _is_ what we have to do, you can't let your personal history with your sister get in the way. We know Zelena has been working with Arthur. Both of them can be leveraged to turn against Nimue, and she's the greatest threat. Maybe it's time we split up the terrible trio."

Killian paused a long moment, disliking the idea with every fiber of his being, but forced to admit it might work, if they also thought they could leap into thin air and suddenly learn how to fly. "If you think so, love," he said, "I'll help you. But Christ, can't we just send a bloody fruit basket first? Or since it can't be eaten for obvious reasons, a flower arrangement?"

"I don't think flowers work on Arthur." Emma looked at him tenderly. "Give me a moment to shower and get dressed, and then I'll see if I can get in contact with Zelena."

With that, she disappeared upstairs, leaving the rest of them to sit in stunned silence. Regina was chewing her tongue furiously, but succeeded in not calling them every bad word in the book, for which Killian duly applauded her, and he could see that Henry was getting furtherly fidgety, wearing that glassy-eyed stare of a new vampire fixated on every jugular vein within convenient biting range. So he stood up and said, "Come with me, lad. Let's get you something to eat."

Henry followed him into the living room, as Killian rolled up his sleeve and gave him his wrist. Henry clamped down at once, hungry and clumsy and clearly still not comfortable with the overwhelming, primal urge that was quite foreign to his nature as an urbane, intellectual adult, a professor and teacher used to keeping things in control, not knocking them further out of it. He was already much more powerful than other fledglings Killian had known, and he felt a shy sort of pride in it, as human fathers must feel to see their sons doing well in school, or being taller than their peers and dunking on them mercilessly in basketball, or winning competitions, or otherwise standing out from the crowd. Not that Henry needed to be special as a vampire, because everything special about him had already existed when he was a human man. Not that it made any difference to the deep-rooted, wrenching love that Killian felt when he'd seen Henry open his eyes in the first few seconds after that new birth, when the change took hold and he came back to life. He would have loved Henry even if he was stumbling over his own feet and couldn't get his fangs out without biting his tongue. If he wanted to be a vegetarian vampire who snacked on blood tofu. If, God forbid, he sparkled and brooded and wanted to stay in high school forever to stalk boring girls (though Killian would have had to give him a very stern talking-to about that). It didn't matter. Loving a child never had anything to do with their accomplishments. Only with their existence. Only with the way it was completely intertwined, forever, with yours.

After a few more moments, Henry finished his feed, let go, and stepped back, wiping his mouth with an embarrassed expression. "Hey. Thanks. I'm sorry about Dad – about David. I'm sure he won't hold a grudge. Well, for too long."

"Neither of you have anything to apologize for." Killian buttoned his shirt cuff, not quite able to meet Henry's gaze. "I did him wrong. Did all of you wrong, and you were the ones who stopped it, and me, from getting any worse. Though he did get in quite a considerable whack upside my head, so I hope he'll consider the score at least partially settled."

Henry's mouth quirked. "You never know. He still remembers the time Jimmy and I scraped the mirror off his truck when we were sixteen. Granted, we'd borrowed it without permission, and granted, my license hadn't actually come in the mail yet, but you'd think I was personally responsible for breaking the arm off the damn Venus de Milo, the way he went on about it. I even paid to replace it out of my allowance, I don't see what the problem is."

Killian snorted despite himself. "Prickly man, your father, isn't he?"

"Just stubborn," Henry said. "And determined to protect his family at any cost. I don't think he cares as much what happened to him, just that the rest of us were in danger. But there are bigger fish to fry now, and he'll see that. What do you think Emma isn't telling us?"

"You sensed that too?" Killian was startled. "Bloody hell, I wasn't entirely sure I wasn't just imagining it. Something Merlin said, I think. She wasn't quite forthcoming on what exactly it was, just that she talked with him in the cave. Could be anything, but I rather have a feeling it might be just what it will take to use the scales."

Henry considered, then nodded, as if to confirm that he had had the same idea. They returned to the kitchen, waiting a few more minutes until Emma came downstairs, washed and dressed and looking more or less presentable. "Well," she said. "I have to admit, I'm not sure what the quickest way to find Zelena is, but she can't be too far away. She's possibly even at Arthur's right now, she mentioned how nice it was when she was trying to get me to join her. And Regina, I know you know where that is, so if you could please tell us?"

Regina sighed deeply, but appeared to have grimly resigned herself to the necessity, and gave them an address in Kensington, which was about where Killian had expected Arthur to live (the location of the Potentate's residence was not common knowledge, the way it was for the President or Prime Minister). The visiting delegation appeared to be Emma, Killian, and Henry, as while Regina might have established a diplomatic bridgehead with Arthur (on mostly false pretenses, but still) she for obvious reasons was not the best person to take on a trip intended to improve ties with Zelena. Killian of course was not about to let Emma go alone, and Henry had served quite well as mediator of supernatural family difficulties before, so it made sense to let him continue in the role. Besides, all three of them knew Arthur, had stayed at his hotel in Boston, and were familiar with his methods of operation, though they would be very wary about accepting his refreshments. As well, if nothing else, it reminded Zelena of all the family she could have if she rejected Nimue and convinced Arthur to come with her. Whether or not the thought of being the grandmother of an English professor appealed to her, it couldn't hurt to try.

Killian and Henry did their best to ensure that they too were dressed for a prestigious social call, Henry instinctively trying to check his reflection in the mirror and remembering that he couldn't anymore. As he headed the hall to fetch his coat, a voice said, "Killian."

He glanced up. "Not afraid you'll catch something if you stand close to me?"

Regina flinched, as if to accept that she had probably deserved that. Then she said, "If you absolutely have to go visit my crazy sister and a man who very badly needs them to invent vampire Valium, can you at least look after our son?"

Having been girded for another smart remark, that took Killian briefly by surprise. Then he said, "I promise, I'd never intentionally put the lad in danger. But he's not a hapless human, some fragile little weakling I constantly have to worry about. He's one of us now, and he's learning fast. I trust that he can handle himself, and you have to trust that I will do everything in my power to be sure of it."

Regina paused a long moment, then nodded. "All right," she said quietly. "I'll trust you. Now go, before I remember what a stupid idea this is and stop you."

Killian glanced at her, then nodded. Emma and Henry reappeared, ready to go, and he took his own overcoat. They headed out into the night, and he decided to hail them a cab, rather than showing up unannounced in front of Arthur's mansion at vampire speed and making his crackerjack security team suspect funny business. They sat tensely as the cab navigated the crowded streets of central London, keeping an eye out the window for any instances of vampires or werewolves spectacularly murdering each other in public places, but didn't see any overt signs of a war's outbreak – yet. Killian also couldn't help looking anxiously for Will and Liam, as if he thought he'd somehow glimpse them among the anonymous masses, and couldn't resist asking Henry, "Did they say where exactly they were going?"

"Will knows where the London werewolves hang out, I assume there. Gold got a pretty nice piece of him in the cave, not to mention the vampire who attacked him yesterday, so he went home first to get his motorcycle. Said he didn't want to be running around under his own power if he didn't have to. It's a nice bike." Henry's mouth quirked. "Ducati?"

"Aye," Killian said wryly. "As you may have noticed, Will has a great fondness for things that go very fast and make loud noises. But if he's still hurt enough that he'd rather ride than run, if it goes sour and they have to fight their way out – "

"They'll be fine," Henry said soothingly. "Liam's with him, and he can handle anything. He's the oldest and strongest wolf in London by a long shot."

"Aye," Killian muttered again. "Because I killed the rest of them."

Emma, sensing his distress, put a hand on his knee, and a certain gloom fell over the car for the rest of the ride (their driver was a human, but had been listening intently to Punjabi talk radio the whole time, so there was no fear of him overhearing their conversation, and even if so, it probably was far from the weirdest thing discussed in the back of a black cab). Then they turned into a broad promenade lined with large white rowhouse mansions, a veritable fleet of luxury cars parked along the street – BMWs, Mercedes, Range Rovers, Maseratis, until Killian thought wryly it was indeed a good thing that Will wasn't here, as he would have been sorely tempted to accidentally borrow the keys for one. They glissaded to a halt, and Killian paid their fare; while not as wealthy as some other vampires who had spent the last few centuries on the stock market, a nest egg that had been accruing interest since the start of the Hanover dynasty didn't have to dig through couch cushions for loose change. (He had in fact periodically gone through the ritual of pretending to die and leaving it to himself, and the BoE account was currently under the name of a Mr. Colin Jones, supposedly the original Killian's several-times-great grandson). They got out onto the wet sidewalk, eyeing up the door with the number Regina had specified; from the looks of things, Arthur also owned the houses on either side. Probably the entire street, come to think. They were definitely in his territory, and they would bloody well have to watch their backs. They came in peace, or at least as neutral ambassadors, but not for nothing was the invitation protocol the vampires' biggest legal bugaboo. And they had not been invited.

Nonetheless, Killian if nothing else believed in doing what was in front of him, and he never cared how grandiose and impressive his foes were supposed to be. "Come on, then," he said, straightening his collar and striding up the steps. "Time for an awful family reunion, eh?"

Emma gave him the hint of a smile, both of them standing protectively in front of Henry, as she raised her fist and knocked crisply. They waited as the sound echoed away into the house, both of them doubtless wondering how fast they could get out if this took a turn for the unfortunate, until a white-gloved vampire butler opened the door and regarded them haughtily. "Excuse me? Did you have an appointment?"

"I – no." Emma's fingers plucked nervously at her skirt. "We were – "

"If this is a matter of legal business, the witan bureau offices are in Westminster. The Potentate does not receive unsolicited petitioners, he is simply far too busy and important, and if you're selling something, I assure you he does not want that either. And next time, don't turn up without phoning ahead, otherwise we will have to conclude that you are a possible threat to – "

"Wait! Listen. I'm Zelena Mills' daughter. I was wondering if she was here."

At that the butler, who had been ready to throw them into jail for bad manners at least, blinked. The name meant something to him, enough to halt his tirade, and he snapped his mouth shut with a click. After a moment, he said, "I will enquire. Please wait."

"Well, something definitely crawled up Vampire Jeeves' ass and died," Henry remarked, clearly in an attempt to defuse the tension, once the subject of his remark was out of presumable earshot (then again, he was a supernatural, you never knew). "Do you think Arthur gives the staff Round Table codenames? Like, Sir Gawain, get my newspaper? Sir Kay, clean the bathroom? Sir Lancelot, under no circumstances sleep with my wife?"

"Wait." Killian glanced at Emma. "Remember when Will said there was a Guinevere meddling with the Old Ones registry, and that she was supposed to have died in the 1800s? The hell do you suppose Arthur's done with her?"

With a slight tilt of her head, Emma signaled him that this wasn't the time to ask. They all straightened various items of clothing, attempting to look like reputable individuals who would be admitted into the private residence of a powerful and dangerous supernatural and politician (it was questionable which of those things made him less trustworthy). The butler reappeared, gave them a final supercilious look for good measure, and said, "She is in the parlor. I will take you."

Emma's hand groped for Killian's again, and he took it reassuringly, holding hard, as they followed the butler through the hallway and into a room at the back of the house, with gilted wallpaper, gleaming furniture, large windows looking over a garden, and Zelena sitting primly on a striped-silk sofa, sipping blood from a china teacup. At the sight of them, she stared, blinked, put down her cup, then got hastily to her feet. "Emma! Darling, so you _did_ decide to come? And you've even brought my ridiculous brother with you? How. . . delightful."

"Z-Zelena. Hi." Emma looked intimidated, but didn't retreat, as Killian pointedly glared the butler out of the room. She allowed Zelena to approach and air-kiss each of her cheeks, standing stiffly, then said, "We need to talk to you, and it's important. If you mean what you've been saying about wanting us to be a family, about getting to actually be my mother, you'll listen."

"What? Of course I mean it!" Zelena pouted. "Everything I've done has been for that. Couldn't you tell?"

"When you had your minion kidnap me back in Boston, blamed it on Killian, chained me up with silver, threatened to kill Henry, had me watch you turn Lily, then had us hunt that girl – Aurora Stefanopolis – through the woods, it might have been hard to tell, yes." Emma's voice was cool and level. "I know you thought you were making me into a stronger vampire, to help take my rightful place at your side, but everything that you thought will make me want to join you is just driving us further apart. You have a chance to start over again, though. To make a different decision this time, and atone for your mistakes. Do you want to hear it, or not?"

Zelena's lucent green eyes flicked between the three of them, as if judging the likelihood of a trap or moral lecture or some other undesired correction of her behavior. Then she said, "Very well. I suppose I have nothing better to do. What is this fascinating proposal, darling?"

"We were hoping you and Arthur wanted to help us stop Nimue," Emma said bluntly. "You have plenty of good reasons to, not least because she'll turn on you and destroy you the instant she's led you along to helping her get what she wants. She has no intention of giving either of you anything, and she's going to destroy Arthur's kingdom again, just like she did the first time. Only this time if she does, it will take the entire supernatural world with it. I know you don't give a damn about that, or anyone. But I do. I give a damn. If she succeeds, she'll destroy me too, and you'll be alone again. I don't think you really like your flying were-monkeys and your bloodies and all the other monsters you surround yourself with. I think you like being the real Witch of Salem because it helps you feel like you have a purpose, a way to matter to people, even if they're afraid of you or don't even know you exist. Sitting alone in that warehouse where you took me, watching them go by below. All those people with families, with friends, with things they build, not just what they tear down. No wonder you hate them so much."

Zelena's smile wavered. She opened and shut her mouth, picking up her teacup as if for a bracing sip, then putting it back down; it rattled on the saucer. After a moment she said, clearly striving for light dismissiveness, "Well, the monkeys _are_ a trial, I'll give you that. Not much difference from when they're men, though, is it?"

"If you're referring to Walsh, I'm no longer angry with you for that." Emma's voice remained calm, although she was holding Killian's hand so hard that he grimaced and had to loosen her fingers slightly. "Or even for turning me into a vampire. But that isn't going to vanish overnight. I've lived with the weight of your actions for twenty-two years. I know a bit about your own story, from what Reg – your sister has told me. About your mother abandoning you and never even giving you a chance to be her daughter, so you've tried the opposite on me. You've tried to cling to me at every turn, no matter the methods or my feelings or the cost to everyone else, and so you've done the same thing. You drove me away and you made me hate you and it's led us to this. It's not going to work, Zelena. It's never going to work. If you want it to, you have to do something different. And it's not just me at stake now. It's everyone. Please."

Zelena sat very still, so much that Killian could see the small shifts of air around her, as if a great absence of motion, of silence, of abyss, had gathered in one place, and all the onrush of the universe had simply stopped, as easily as turning off a switch. "Well," she said again, rather faintly. "I – well, I suppose I didn't know how. I never did. I – I love you, Emma. I do. I'll always fight for that. I just. . . if this is true. . . I don't seem to have been very good at it."

Emma let go of Killian and crossed the room, kneeling in front of Zelena and reaching for her hand. "I can forgive you," she said, barely above a whisper. "Even now. But you have to help us. You have to get Arthur to listen to us. He's the Potentate, he has to be able to stop a war. He can't keep giving Nimue everything she needs to end the world as we know it, our world. I know it's full of crappy people and I know in your mind, probably none of them deserve to be saved. But it's the only world in which anyone can have a future. That. . . that you can."

Killian frowned, hearing something in her voice that made him wonder if she was including herself in that reckoning, or if it was a dream that she no longer saw as belonging to her. _What the bloody hell did Merlin ask her to do?_ He was getting less comfortable with it by the minute, whatever unknown price Emma had promised to pay for peace. He and Henry glanced at each other but did not speak, not wanting to break the fragile moment, as Zelena closed her eyes hard, wicking away the suspicious glimmer on her lashes. Then she opened them and said, "Wait here. I'll go get Arthur."

Emma visibly slumped in relief, almost shaking, as Zelena got off the couch and clicked out, and Killian moved quickly to kneel next to her, putting his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest without a word, and he stroked her hair, resting his chin atop her head. "You're bloody brilliant, love," he whispered in her ear. "Amazing. If this works, it'll be all thanks to you."

Emma raised her head to give him a tremulous smile, and they were still on the floor when Zelena returned, followed by Arthur. Upon beholding his guests, he looked startled, then smiled broadly. "Ah, my friends! So good to see you again! Dr. Nolan, did your book get sent off to press in time?"

"It did, actually," Henry said awkwardly. "Thanks. And there have been a few other developments since then as well."

Arthur glanced at him, took in his new vampiric state, and adopted a sympathetic expression. "I see. That must have been difficult. Is there anything I can do to make it easier? Drinks?"

"No," Henry said hastily. "I've fed recently, it's all right. Did, uh – did Zelena tell you why we wanted to talk to you?"

"Not entirely." Arthur seated himself regally on the large armchair, clearly as if it were a throne, and he now considered court to be in session. "But I am, of course, willing to listen."

Emma, Killian, and Henry exchanged further looks, before launching into a rather disjointed, three-part explanation of why they were seeking his assistance. Arthur sat with the professional smile of someone used to fielding all sorts of inquiries and who was well-used to giving no hint of whether he thought they had merit or not. When they finished, he said, "I do admire your patriotic sentiments. And it is true that an open war can ultimately benefit no one, and I most desire a peaceful and perfect kingdom. Hence why we have to be powerful enough to make sure neither this nor another can come to pass again."

"So – you're willing to help us stop Nimue from starting this one?" Emma was clearly choosing her words with utmost care. "You have to know you aren't exactly, well, very trusted in the vampire world. This is the same sort of chance we're giving Zelena, to start over. To be a real hero, the kind Merlin always wanted you to be. You could save England and all its people, human or supernatural alike. Isn't that what King Arthur was always supposed to do, or at least what he always represented? You still can. It's not too late."

"Merlin." Arthur leaned back in his chair. "So he's still around to drop cryptic advice on our heads like anvils, is he? Surely, my dear, you're wise enough not to take it at face value?"

Emma blinked. "Merlin didn't ask me to do this. It was my idea, and I'm not going to beat around the bush. The situation is dire. We need your help."

"My help." Arthur's lip curled around the word, revealing a flash of fang. "By which you mean for me to admit that I am still nothing more than a pawn and a dupe in Merlin's infernal games, a sidekick to the _universus_ who's supposed to do the actual world-saving? That he, of course, could not tell me any of this, nor even hint at it? I have spent _centuries_ trying to play Merlin's games, Miss Swan. Trying to be the 'hero he always wanted me to be.' And I've discovered by now that there is no possible way to win. I almost rather pity you. If you live long enough, you'll learn the same thing, and as terribly as I did. And I certainly have no intention of lowering myself to beg for _your_ forgiveness! As if you have any right to dictate whether or not I am respected? As if you have any idea about what I need to do?"

Killian stood up. "Perhaps," he said levelly, "you'll speak more considerately to the lady?"

"Sometimes honesty must not be considerate." Arthur stood up as well. "Or what, wolf-killer? What will you do? You have the gall to ask _me_ to stop a war, when it's one you've planted the seeds for over the course of nearly three hundred years? At least I've spent this long trying to be a hero! What the bloody blazes have you done, but fall?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Henry was the third to get up, positioning himself between the two older vampires like a referee whistling a heavyweight fight dead in the ring. "Gents, take it easy, take it easy. Nobody's fighting anybody in here, we have enough of that happening elsewhere. Arthur, Your Majesty, none of this is meant as any kind of insult. Trust me, if anyone knows your full story, it's me. Well, at least what the ballads and romances had to say about it. Of course we know how hard you've tried. Just think about it, all right?"

Arthur took a step backward, but didn't take his gaze off Killian. "Oh," he said. "Trust me, I shall. Think about all of it, most carefully. Especially what excusable motives you can possibly have for coming here and trying to dissuade me from my moment of final, greatest triumph." He turned his head, speaking to someone just outside the room. "You can come in now, my lady."

There was a pause, and then the door clicked again. A faint, sweet scent of rose perfume drifted in the air, it swung wider, and Nimue stepped in, holding something in her hand. Something almost familiar, that gave Killian a cold and unaccountable spasm of terror, merely aside from the sensation of seeing her. She looked straight into his eyes, and he could feel something rising, crawling out of the recesses of his head where he had so barely pushed it, coiling and ensnaring him. Could feel it coming up again, that mad blackness, that insanity, and struggled against it as hard as he could. "Bloody hell," he managed. "Emma, Henry, _run."_

"Nobody's going anywhere, I'm afraid." Nimue waved a hand, and the door shut and locked behind her. "Do you recognize this, Killian? You see, it's partly why I was so certain you would help me with our minor Merlin problem. And you still are going to, but never mind. There's never been as good a killer as you, whether before or since, and now this. It's the only thing strong enough to kill the _universus,_ and I have you to thank for that as well. You're a marvel."

With that, she held up the object, and sickening terror washed over him as he did, in fact, recognize it. The stake, the one he had specially designed to kill Gold, made of cedar and cored in silver, the weapon to ensure the slowest and most agonizing death possible. She must have been fanning long-simmering resentments between Teeth and Tails at least in part to give her time to search for it, to make sure nobody was available to see her or stop her. Arthur stood watching with a satisfied smirk, as Henry looked wildly at Killian, Emma was frozen, and Zelena frowned. "Wait," she said, glancing back and forth between Nimue and Emma. "No, wait."

"No time for you to get soft, I'm afraid." Nimue smiled. "We tried the first plan, to drive your daughter to our side. It didn't work. We tried the second plan, to be rid of Merlin and the scales. That didn't work either. Of course I didn't want to do this, but I'm afraid that killing Emma is the only way left to ensure that I have everything I deserve. Arthur understands. Why not you?"

"No!" Zelena took a step. "No, you can't kill her. She'll be good, won't she? No threat to you?" She glanced frantically back at Emma. "Won't you, darling? Be good?"

"I'm sorry," Emma said. "I'm not going to make promises I can't keep."

Nimue regarded both of them pitilessly, something ancient and savage glittering in her eyes, something far beyond mere blood rage or a vampire's hunting instinct. Then she shrugged. "Very well, then," she said. "I suppose I just have to kill you both."

With that, she lunged, too fast to be seen. Killian roared and threw himself into her path, having a confused impression of Zelena doing the same, feeling the sear and burn of silver at far too close range; having already been staked once in the recent past, and thus with vivid memories of how unpleasant it was, he was in no haste to repeat the experience, but he didn't care. As long as Nimue didn't use his weapon, his own weapon, to kill Emma, he would take a hundred stakings, not that he would survive long enough for it. No Liam to lick the wound this time, no potions to stop the damage. If this was it, so be it.

Everything was chaos for a few seconds more, until suddenly the world snapped back into place, and Killian staggered. He was on his knees with no memory of how he had gotten there, and he felt as if he had been dropped from the sky to smash on the floor, but he hadn't been staked. He looked around madly to see where it was, fearing the worst, and saw Zelena sprawled flat with it buried through her sternum, jerking and gasping as the poison of cedar and silver worked slowly into her. There was no sign of Nimue, until Killian turned his head and saw her thrown against the wall, looking dazed, as Henry had his fangs out, snarling in her face. Apparently, sheer instinct had taken over, and he hadn't cared that she was the first and oldest of vampires, and he had barely been one for a week. Had indeed managed, by the look of things, to take her thoroughly off guard, and perhaps he was right about having quite a bit more power than your average fledgling. Arthur stood in the middle of his living room which had just turned into a supernatural free-for-all, looking slightly stunned. Then he said, "Why, you – "

Emma was on her knees, just behind Zelena, as Killian tried to crawl to her. His limbs weren't working the way he was used to, and he could still feel the encroaching darkness, swallowing him in a dizzy spiral, down and down and down. "Now!" he yelled at her. "Whatever you have to do, love, now! Do it! Now!"

She looked back at him, anguished. There was a glimmer of something in front of her, the air twisting and reshaping, until the Osiris scales sat on Arthur's carpet, shining and undamaged. A definite look of shock and horror crossed Nimue's face to see them, and Emma picked them up, got to her feet, and started toward her; Henry wouldn't be able to hold her much longer. Killian rolled over agonizingly, felt something burning, looked down, and saw a shard of the stake embedded in his own chest. He ripped it out, trying to judge how to shield her if Arthur decided to attack. The world kept swimming. Zelena wasn't moving anymore.

Emma reached Nimue. Held up one dish of the scale to catch a drop of her blood. Bit her wrist, putting it above the other dish, but didn't let her own blood fall into it just yet. Instead, she looked back at Killian, and their eyes locked. He was too far away, too far away to help her, and whatever was about to be done was now, and he still didn't know the price, and it was too late. Too late. For them, for anything but this.

"Killian," Emma whispered. "I love you."

She let go of her wrist.

The drop of blood fell into the scale.


	26. Chapter 26

It had been a long time since Will Scarlet had seen the inside of Lunar, and he’d be more than bloody fine if it was even longer. Or never, that would be best. It was a werewolf club in west London, close to the large green parks of Richmond and Wimbledon (always advisable for a clientele that liked to take a four-legged run now and then), furnished with a pretentious lower-case logo ( _l_ _·u_ _·n_ _·Ͻ ·r)_ a lot of blue light and black minimalism, and a gang of cliquey regulars who were, in a word, prats. Will’s background was fairly standard for a wolf: growing up on a rough council estate in Derby, troubled home life, issues at school, childhood tragedy, the usual bit. As such, if he’d been sent to, say, a crap bar in Croydon, he would have felt right at home; knock a few heads, quaff a few beers, tell them they were being idiots and to stop the war right bloody now, and break a snooker cue over the head of anyone who disagreed. Problem solved, exactly the way he knew how to do it. Not so with Lunar and its pack, who were engaged in a diligent effort to rebrand werewolves as a cool, stylish counterculture with niche fashion trends, six-figure salaries, and sexy photoshoots. The message was clear: werewolves were not supernatural pariahs who could barely be trusted not to piss on fire hydrants, who had only ended up as such because they weren’t beautiful or rich enough to be vampires, but a hip, desirable, and thoroughly gentrified group of Young Urban Professionals with tech jobs and indie-music tastes to rival Brooklyn, San Francisco, or anywhere else. It was a slick marketing campaign. It had plenty of converts. It could not hurt to burnish up their image, or to remind the bloody Teeth that they did not in fact run the world and all their movies were stupid. It was, without a doubt, going to drive Will completely raving mental before the night was out.

“Knew we shouldn’t have come here,” was the first thing he said, after he and Liam had roared up on his bike, found a place to stash it in the car park, and made their way toward the door. Theoretically, the only criteria for admittance was that you had to be either a wolf or a human known to the pack, but your stereotypical beer-swilling, blue-collar Tail would have tested this policy to its utmost. As well, Will had ended up on the bad side of these prissy, pompous twats once or three times, and knew he was not in for a warm welcome. The only potential bright side was to hope that they would see an actual war as terribly déclassé and contrary to their aims of changing their image as a bunch of knucklehead brawlers, and hence would restrain themselves to writing mean things on Fangd. But they _were_ wolves, with wolves’ instincts, and the Lunar crew was still the minority. If the mob got carried away, they might be powerless to stop it.

“So why did we?” Liam asked, reasonably enough, after they had passed inspection, been given wristbands (why the bloody hell did you need wristbands, especially ones that glowed blue in the dark?) and he at least also received particular fish-eye; either he wasn’t dressed ironically enough for their tastes, or they recognized a challenger when they saw one. “Don’t tell me these are the alphas of the city these days?”

“Unfortunately, they are. They’ve got money and they’ve got clout and they’ve been kicking out anyone who don’t follow their bloody reform program. So if we want to talk to the werewolf leadership, we’ll find ‘em here.”

Liam snorted, with a definite _kids-these-days_ disapproving-grandfather sound to it; clearly when _he_ was a boy, there had been standards for these things. Not that Will thought Liam was qualified to be casting aspersions on modern werewolf culture, as a) his experience had been, to say the least, unusual, and b) Will was plenty capable of casting them himself, thanks. He hadn’t spotted anyone who might unduly complicate things just yet, but the place was full, and the tenor of the conversations sounded angry. Crowds of wolves were congregated in booths, heads together, and although the DJ was doing his best to spin some beats, nobody was dancing. They weren’t here for fun, in other words, and if even the Lunar yuppies were stewing, the atmosphere in those aforesaid crap bars in Croydon must be even more belligerent. And here they were, a misbehaving loner who didn’t get along with the bigwigs and who had slept with London’s most notorious wolf-killer for half a decade, and the not-entirely-recovered slave of the most dangerous vampire to ever live. Just the thing to make it all better.

Adopting a casual saunter, Will made his way up to the bar as Liam followed him, edging in to order beers for both of them. When these had been provided, and he put a crumpled fiver on the counter, he said, “Oy, mate. Any chance Quinn’s here?”

The bartender gave him a funny look, as Quinn Hollingsworth – the London Alpha, president/CEO of the Lunar oligarchy, successful startup entrepreneur, and someone who very definitely did not have a high opinion of Will – was not exactly the kind of person that you thought you could just drop by the club to meet up with. “Not that I’ve seen. Why?”

“Was hopin’ to talk to him about all this.” Will jerked a thumb at the conspirators. “Seems there’s quite a bit of commotion. We fightin’ someone? Apart from Chelsea supporters, that is?”

The bartender’s look turned even colder, as the implication of football hooliganry, formerly a favorite wolf pastime, was like trying to sell someone a fancy house and mentioning that it used to be a well-known crack den. _“We_ are not fighting Chelsea supporters, no. If _you_ are, I wouldn’t be surprised. You must be Scarlet.”

“Er, yeah.” Will coughed. “Promise I’m not here to start shit, though. I’ve heard things, on the streets. Kind of things hintin’ there’s trouble, and I know stuff about it that’s important. You sure Quinn or one of his flunkeys isn’t around?”

The other wolf eyed him for a long moment, polishing a glass in a menacing fashion, until he finally said, “Anita’s in the back. If you were really so desperate to see someone.”

Will winced. Anita Gish, Quinn’s Beta and second-in-command of the London pack, was a stunning mid-forties brunette who worked a high-powered finance job on Canary Wharf – futures trading or speculation or something of the sort – and who was hence both a literal Wolf of Wall Street and a woman completely used to being underestimated by arrogant male chauvinists, who she would then dismember and snack on for lunch. (Hopefully _that_ part wasn’t literal.) She also, as the emerging theme appeared to be, did not like Will. As far as she was concerned, he should have been booted back to Derby in disgrace long ago, rather than continuing to be London’s problem, and it was only his connection with dangerous third parties – _vampire_ third parties – that had prevented this happy development. Even more uncomfortably, she was one of the few wolves who knew directly about Will’s relationship with Killian, as that for obvious reasons was not something he went yammering about, and would probably have taken far stronger action against him for it if not for the fact that even now, the London pack walked on eggshells around Killian Jones. There had not been enough of them to formally reestablish until 1965, fifty years after he had gone into seclusion, and while from time to time Will had joined Killian at a vampire establishment, bringing Killian anywhere near pack territory would have been a bloodbath. Wolves were still advised not to live and work in Bloomsbury or Russell Square, just in case. The wounds were deep and old.

“Well,” Will hedged, trying to judge what the odds of this going well could possibly be, aside from miniscule. As befit any good stockbroker, Anita had a quick trigger finger and a ruthless nature, and she had not won her position by looking nice on camera or encouraging everyone to buy from organic butchers. “She, um, she seein’ anyone just now?”

“I don’t imagine there’s any conceivable way she wants to see _you.”_

“Prob – probably not, but – ”

“Look, you smarmy arse,” Liam growled, slamming his beer onto the counter; he had three inches and thirty pounds on the skinny-jeaned, black-rim-spectacled bartender, not to mention the muscles, scars, and general ex-con chic. “We need to talk to this woman. So scurry back there, see if she’s available, and if she is, take us. Is that sufficiently clear? Now!”

The bartender opened his mouth, briefly considered refusing, realized this for the very bad idea it was, and vanished posthaste, while Will admired the effect. “Think I can see why you were so good at the Navy. But I have to warn you, she hates me.”

“That seems to apply to everyone here. What did you do?”

“Dunno, I’m a wonderful bloke. Although.” Will paused. Quieter, he said, “I love your brother.”

A shadow crossed Liam’s face, and he glanced away, clearly understanding both Killian’s dark past with the wolves and that it was because of him, that his grief-maddened, vengeful, turned-vampire little brother had tried to kill as many of them as possible after watching him be mauled to death, unable to do a thing. After a moment he said, “I suppose that’s not the worst reason you could have offered. He. . . he stopped before you met, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Will said wryly. “Bad a place as I was in when we first crossed paths, even I wouldn’t have taken up with someone runnin’ out every weekend to do a spot of murder. I was an idiot. I had no clue who he was, that he had such a history. And I’m grateful I didn’t. Otherwise I’d never have come to know him.”

Liam paused, then nodded, still looking troubled. Fortunately, the bartender returned just then, still looking as if he very much thought this was a horrible idea and would not accept responsibility when it blew up, before beckoning brusquely to them. “Ten minutes. This way.”

They followed him down a narrow corridor, illuminated with more blue path lights, to the VIP lounge at the back. It had double glass doors, a key-card lock, and low black couches and brushed-chrome tables, and once the bartender scanned them in, Will saw Anita holding court at the far side, apparently not forewarned of just who she was about to be entertaining. Then she looked up, her golden eyes flashed menacingly, and her nostrils flared. _“You?”_

“Erm.” Will shifted his weight. “Nice evening?”

“Far nicer before you walked in here!” Anita shot to her feet, taking a stalking step toward him, as the bartender was suddenly looking very concerned that he might not still be employed (or in one piece) by the time the night was over. “Are you just _asking_ for – ”

At that, Liam cleared his throat. “Excuse us. You’d be Anita?”

The Beta screeched to a halt, whirled to look at him – and then looked again, for quite a bit longer, as Will was left to consider that the legendary effect of the Jones men on the fairer sex (or really, anyone with eyes) was clearly as potent as ever. “I am,” she said, in a much more promising tone of voice. “And you are?”

“Captain Liam Jones, ma’am, at your service.” He inclined his head, with a glance back at her that made Will think the admiration was definitely mutual. “We were informed we could have ten minutes of your time. I assure you it’s important.”

“I see,” Anita said, though it was unclear whether she saw was that their visit was important, or that Liam was a really good-looking bloke, if a bit scuffed up, with the innate air of an alpha. Possibly both; Quinn, wherever he was, might be getting a bit hot under his polo-shirt collar. “Surely you’re not going to tell me, however, that you’re here with him?”

“I am.” Liam remained courteous, but unyielding. “If you would?”

Anita hesitated, then gestured out her hangers-on; they all made sure to give pointed dirty looks to Will as they exited, as if to assure their mistress that their loyalty need not be in question. It made him a bit sad. He was used to being banished to the outskirts of pack society by now, stubborn enough that he wasn’t going to come crawling back, and for the most part he was fine with it. But wolves weren’t meant to live alone. He had his relationship with Elsa; she was a lovely, wonderful woman, so much better than he deserved, and someday when all of this was over, he might even get a chance to explain to her the reason for all this insanity that had suddenly descended on them. Yet she was also a human, perfectly well aware of supernaturals by virtue of dating a werewolf, but in no haste to join them herself. She knew about Killian, and the two of them were on cordial terms, though they’d only met a few times; there was no jealousy on either of their parts. But the more Will tried to build meaningful relationships among his own kind, the more he met the unspoken but unmistakable sense that far from whether he accepted a certain trendy lifestyle or Lunar with its lower-case logo, he would never be given anything but the cold shoulder until he not only broke off all ties with Killian, but made it clear how stupid he had been to ever have them in the first place, and abjectly groveled and scraped for forgiveness. And that, simply, he was not going to do. On one level, he didn’t blame them. Killian’s past was violent, infamous, and bloodstained, and the damage he had done to werewolves in London could never be erased. Of course they were within their rights to shun Will for having anything to do with him, much less sharing bed and blood with him for five years. That still didn’t mean Will was about to sacrifice one for the other.

As the three of them sat down, and Will took a strategic position to Liam’s right, symbolically establishing himself as the Beta to Liam’s Alpha, he wondered what Anita would think if she knew that she was sitting across from Killian Jones’ brother. Indeed, the two of them were doing enough borderline-indecent things with their eyes to each other that Will almost felt the urge to make a public-service announcement, so things didn’t get really bloody awkward later. Liam was explaining the exigency of the situation, omitting a few delicate parts, and how important it was that they stopped it, that Anita had to make the Tails of London see sense, and (as he had apparently cottoned on that she worked in finance) that a war would be disastrous for the stock market, among other things. She was clearly giving it due diligence – this was a woman who had graduated from LSE with first-class honors, and been profiled by a number of prestigious international business publications who had no idea of her alter ego as co-leader of a werewolf pack. In other words, ferociously smart and a formidable force to be reckoned with. But she also had her hand on Liam’s knee under the table, and he was leaning into her with every word he spoke, and the sexual tension was so thick that Will could strike a match and the entire room would explode, and he wasn’t sure this was a good idea. Not that Liam shouldn’t have a bit of fun, as God knew the poor man deserved it. Just that if Anita found out who he was in the wrong way, and thought they had been setting her up, figured she was a softer touch than Quinn and were trying to manipulate her or worse –

“So,” she said at last, having heard the litany. “Let me get this straight. You want me to stop the Tails from fighting to protect themselves now that a pair of very old, and very bad, vampires have somehow returned from the presumable dead? Why would I do that, exactly?”

“Not quite.” Liam moved his hand alongside her forearm, their heads tilted nearly close enough to touch. “I want you to stop the Tails from doing anything rash, attacking regular vampires who have no more part in this conflict than we do, and so inciting a full-out war. What you’ve been told is a combination of misinformation and exaggeration, by the very vampire who has the most to gain from this, and I am sure we don’t want to march to her bidding. I realize tempers are running high, but acting on them would be disastrous.”

Anita gazed up at him, lips slightly parted, as if to say that she could possibly be induced to take his view of the matter, and a few other things as well. At least their total preoccupation with each other meant that Will hadn’t had any insults slung in his direction in the last several minutes, which was nice, but he felt as if he might need to remind Liam that he was there. Then again, he seemed to have the situation under control, so that could be counterproductive. He reached into his pocket for his phone, in case there was an important message he had missed, but nothing. Hopefully everything was all right back at Killian’s.

“What’s this I’ve heard about a werewolf being attacked, then?” Anita asked, when Liam appeared to be waiting for her. “Unprovoked? Serious wounds? By a vampire?”

Will coughed. “Actually,” he said, “that was me. I was fighting Gold, and it got a bit fiddly. I’m not about to try out for any ninja warrior competitions, but I’m not on my deathbed neither. So you’d definitely not want to start a war on my behalf, eh? That would just be embarrassing.”

Anita looked at him coolly. “You are still a wolf,” she said. “If you’d start acting like one, there would be a spot for you in the pack, and you’d never have to worry if someone had your back. All you have to do is accept our rules and give up being a loner. They don’t historically come to good ends.”

“Well, see,” Will said. “I have my reasons to live the way I do, just as you do yours. And I’ve actually got plenty of people I’d trust to have my back.”

“Vampires.” The Beta’s eyes were flat and guarded. “And I’m well aware of which one.”

“More than just him. Quite a few of ‘em, actually. I want to come back and have friends among the wolves again, more than anything. I miss it like half of me. But if we’re going to avoid exactly what bloody Nimue wants us to do, you have to think about listenin’ to me, as much as I’d have to think about listenin’ to you. I’m not giving up the Teeth I love, just to fit into some stupid side-picking, capture the flag mindset, like we can only ever have one kind of friend or ally and we hate the other side just because. The vampires don’t want a fight. Don’t make the wolves into the villains just to be contrary.”

“The vampires don’t want a fight, but it’s just coincidence that two of their worst have returned and want to kill the rest of us?” Anita countered. “Don’t pretend. If the wolves all died as a result, they wouldn’t lift a finger to help us.”

“You’re wrong,” Will said. “The ones I know would fight to the death for you. And I think that would have an effect on the rest of them. People don’t want war in the usual course of things, you know. They get made to want it, or they get backed into a corner where it seems like the only option, or somebody charismatic gets up, calls for it, and purposefully makes everyone feel like cowards and traitors if they don’t support it. Works every time, and it’s bloody depressing to watch. I’m not letting that happen here. Not if I can help it.”

Anita opened her mouth, paused, and shut it. Then she said, “Be serious, Will. You’re not in the pack because you chose the worst murderer of our kind who has ever lived over the rest of your brothers and sisters. He never had a reason to kill us, he just liked doing it, and if you really expect me to believe that he would ever – ”

“He did,” Liam said. “A reason. He had it.”

Anita looked back at him, clearly not wanting to fire off the same sharp reply that she was comfortable launching at Will, but just as clearly openly disbelieving this. “How would you know that? How could you possibly?”

“Because. . .” Liam evidently weighed up the risks, and then went for it. “Me. I was his reason. Killian Jones is my brother. In 1734, he was turned into a vampire, and myself into a wolf, due to Robert Fitzmalcolm, or as he’s better known, Gold. In my case, the transformation happened because my brother was chained up just after his change, told he could stop it if he was strong enough, and then was forced to watch as a pack of wolves, Gold’s earliest attempt at brutalizing and controlling our kind for his own purposes, tore me to pieces. When I woke from my own change, he then mesmered and wolfsbaned me and used me as his slave over the next several centuries. I’ve only recently broken free of him, and only because of vampires – Killian, his sister Regina, one Emma Swan, and most of all, their son, Henry. You can perhaps understand if my view on this, and its complications, matches Will’s.”

That, to say the least, was not what Anita had expected. She looked at him for a long, confused moment, as if to check that he actually was a wolf and not a very well-disguised vampire actor, took in the scars, the scuff, the damage. “You – ” She stopped, and had to start again. _“You’re_ Killian Jones’s. . . _brother?”_

“Aye.” Liam smiled dryly. “I’m told there’s something of a family resemblance.”

“I didn’t think. . . this is. . .” She was still reeling. “So you just. . . forgave him for it? Do you actually know everything he did? For how long?”

“No,” Liam said. “I don’t know every single detail. But there is nothing I could learn that would change my mind, make me love him any less than I do, or stop blaming myself for not being strong enough to save _him_ before Gold did that to him. To us. So begrudge him his past, if that’s what is of most importance to you. But if you do, be sure to begrudge mine just as much.”

“You. . .” Anita shook her head, dazed. “It’s not _your_ fault.”

“Yes,” Liam repeated. “It is. Just as much. With what’s happened, with what I’ve done. If he deserves to pay a price, so do I. And after so long living half a life, I want to become part of a pack just as much as Will does, if not more. But if it involved having to choose between that and losing my brother again, I’m not doing it. It simply isn’t even a possibility.”

Anita took another moment to chew over that. Then she said, “I suppose it’s understandable that you would have a more lenient view of your brother’s actions than the rest of us, and believe me, we know who Gold is. But we have something we’re trying to do here, Captain Jones. Something which neither you nor _he_ have been part of, and which we’re not going to upend at the drop of a hat, so – ”

“So don’t start a war!” Liam rose to his feet, knocking the table back, as the drinks sloshed. “A war was never the way to solve bloody anything! I’ve fought in a few, I know. I know as well you’re not a fool or someone to do the stupid thing just to spite your enemies. Not the way it works in either of your worlds, human or wolf. Does it?”

Anita considered him, clearly approving of the fact that despite the strong flirtatious tenor of their previous interactions, he had completely abandoned that now and was addressing her bluntly, as someone who was very well aware of the truth and didn’t need it sugarcoated or baby-spooned to her. Will wondered how many overconfident top-dog jackass investors had tried to mansplain hybrid mutual funds or the derivatives market to her, thinking she’d zone out and be more impressed with their shiny Bentley and designer suits, and gotten utterly and humiliatingly schooled. If Anita could get over her hatred of Killian, she and Liam might actually be a good match. (That, and assuming they didn’t all die in the next forty-eight hours, which was still not the highest of possibilities.) “Well,” she said. “I don’t want to rush into anything stupid either. But if things don’t calm down, we’re not going to be caught sitting on our hands.”

Liam kept looking at her, but neither of them seemed inclined to progress further, at an impasse after drawing so close, facing each other but not meeting halfway. Then, just as Will was wondering if he could contribute anything useful, he heard the door beep, the glass doors cycled open, and a voice said, “Anita, we need to discuss – who the hell is this?”

Liam and Will glanced up at the same time, and Will felt a frisson of foreboding shock as he recognized it a split second before he saw the face, cast into eerie blue by the mood lighting. Quinn Hollingsworth, Alpha of the London Pack, still in his white shirt and skinny tie and tight-fitting pants, apparently coming straight from work (couldn’t delay the launch of his new app even to deal with an incipient supernatural crisis) to get in some quality strategy time with his Beta, and instead finding two strange wolves looking cozy with her instead. Well, one strange (and very dangerous-looking) one, and the other whom he had done everything but pin an actual Scarlet (ha bloody ha) letter to in order to exile him from pack territory. It took him only an instant to process, and then his face went thunderous. “Get them out of here.”

“Hey, mate,” Will said. “We’re as entitled to be here as you are. And trust me, it’s – ”

“Out!” Quinn clapped his hands, and a pair of large werewolf bouncers in suits and dark glasses materialized as if by magic, striding toward them. “And I don’t want to see either of you in Lunar again. I’ve given you a very long leash, Will, and now – ”

“Given me a leash, is it? Because I’m a dog?” Will moved out directly in front of him, hands on his hips. “You’re just like me, you know. You’re not somehow different or better just because you have a trendy City job and you want to be on the cover of GQ. And no matter how bloody stupid you think I am, if you throw us out – ”

“I said, out.” Quinn looked at him with slitted golden eyes, a wolfish growl underlying his words, as the bouncers reached them. But even as Will wondered where that snooker cue was when you really needed it (though it might just bounce off their polished bald heads) Liam stepped up, pushed him aside, and faced Quinn himself.

“No,” he said simply. “We’re not leaving.”

Quinn raised a dark eyebrow. “I’m Alpha here. I give the orders.”

“Then order your pack off a war that’s going to get all of them killed and inflict untold damage on the rest of us. Otherwise, I don’t care what you bloody think your brand is, there won’t be one. Do you hear me?”

By the look on Quinn’s face, it was a long time since anyone, let alone this unwashed interloper, had dared to speak to him in that sort of voice. He shifted his weight, as if preparing to drop into a crouch and test if those fighting words could be backed up, and Will found himself nervously glancing around the room in search of anything particularly breakable. By law, if it did come to an out-and-out challenge, neither he, Anita, nor the bouncers could interfere, or any of the other wolves in the club. It would be seen as insulting that they thought the Alpha needed help, or even look as if they were trying to usurp him themselves. He knew that Liam had not come here tonight intending to fight the Alpha, and doubted he had any interest in taking Quinn’s position, but if the obnoxious little bastard wasn’t going to listen to reason, there might be no choice.

“Where are you from?” Quinn said instead. “I’ve never seen or heard of you. Now you’re walking in as if you can tell the rest of us what to do, tell _me_ what to do, and that’s not how the system works. Sorry.” He glanced at his muscle entourage. “Take care of this.”

Will tensed, on the verge of changing, though if he went wolf in Lunar’s VIP lounge, he would be blackballed across the entire bloody United Kingdom. “Listen, you stupid blighter, you have no idea what you’re doing. Stop the war, and you never have to see us again or – ”

One of the bouncers pulled back a ham-sized fist, and punched him in the stomach.

Will felt a sensation as if every available atom of air had evacuated his body at very high speed. He was briefly unaware of falling, until he found himself on hands and knees on the floor, gulping uselessly, and heard snarling close at hand. Managing to twist his head around, he saw a massive grey wolf standing over him, ears laid back and teeth bared, old white scars striped through the thick fur of his head and claws the size of small daggers. Will had just enough time to realize that it was Liam, and this was about to get very messy, before Quinn, across the way, realized it as well. He nodded slightly to the muscle, backing them off, then took a running start, leaped, shifted in midair, and came down with jaws wildly gnashing for Liam’s brindled throat.

Glasses cascaded off the table and smashed on the floor, spilling exotically colored liqueurs, as the two werewolves crashed into it, entangled, and sprang to their feet, whirling around to face each other like deck guns on a battleship. Will and Anita rolled out of the way, momentarily united by the outbreak of hostilities (bloody _hell,_ this was not going well) and tried to get clear, as property damage was not high on the list of things wolves were worried about when they really threw down. Quinn really must be pissed if he was willing to bust up his precious Lunar, but then, he was rather distracted just now. Liam had just tackled him, sending him skidding, and while Liam was much older, much stronger, and much larger, Quinn had not risen to the head of the London Pack _merely_ by artful scruffy attractiveness and a marketing pitch. He recovered, jumped up, and got his teeth locked around Liam’s foreleg, ripping his head back and tearing. A splash of blood hit the polished black floor, and Liam skidded down.

“Christ, just bite him in the arse!” Will shouted, figuring that his rooting interests were probably fairly obvious and that it wasn’t going to do any damage to his standing that wasn’t already done. For her part, Anita should have been cheering on her Alpha, but she was silent, watching the fight with unblinking intensity; it had to have been a while since one of these took place. The bouncers were scrambling to get anything else out of the way, but their efforts were useless. Liam got Quinn by the scruff and threw him bodily through the glass doors, smashing them with a sound like the entire building was collapsing, and shards scattered like diamonds, droplets of blood like rubies. It was almost morbidly beautiful, if you could ignore the two immortals going life-or-death hammer-and-tongs in the wreckage, as they started to hear shouts from down the hall. Will sprinted after them, just as they somersaulted into the main club and in front of an audience of astonished and horrified werewolves. Quinn was hurt too, but neither of them were close to weakened, and this clearly was going down to the wire.

Some iPhones appeared, doubtless to record “insane alpha fight @ Lunar Saturday night” footage that would be duly posted on Fangd, but Will saw nervous looks exchanged. The rest of the pack was perceptibly backing away, wanting no part of this, and some of them also had to be wondering what became of them, their lives, if this crazy gatecrashing loner managed to take over as London Alpha. It seemed apparent, at least, that Liam would not be sponsoring any makeover campaigns, and unlike vampires, who could go wherever and do whatever the hell they wanted, wolves didn’t leave the pack. Not except for Will, and it hadn’t been by his choice, was still a wound and a handicap he felt inherently every day. They couldn’t just quit because they didn’t like the new management. If Liam won, he got to do with them as he wanted.

Will briefly thought that at least this might stop them from going out to attack any passing vampires, but by no means guaranteed that Nimue hadn’t convinced the vampires to attack _them,_ and if the wolves were distracted by the throwdown currently occurring in front of them, they would be in no shape to mount an effective defense. With that in mind, he turned and grimly foraged across the floor toward Anita. “Oy,” he panted. “We’ve got to get them out of the way.”

She stared at him, clearly struggling with the fact that he was the one to propose it over the clear need for it to be done, then whirled away, shifted into a lovely silver-furred she-wolf, and began running perimeter duty on the stunned clubbers. Will thought she could use a spot of help, hoped there weren’t any rules about assisting a Beta and decided he didn’t care, and changed as well. The two of them herded the amateur videographers away – one idiot was using the zoom function on his phone to get the best angle of Liam throwing Quinn through the glass rack, which was what had just happened. Quinn had managed to land a fairly deep blow to Liam’s face, though, and blood was running through his fur, crusting one eye almost shut. The exodus was in full force now, wolves stumbling out into the chilly night, some of them forgetting the rules about transformations in public places before a certain hour in their eagerness to get away. They bounded down the street and out of sight, until Will heard someone lay on a car horn and swear loudly, followed by a screech of tires, as what looked like half a London Zoo predator exhibit ran in panic through a major thoroughfare. Oh Christ, if one of them got hit –

Still in wolf form, he galloped down the alley, sprang over rubbish bins in a single bound (Furry Superman, that was him) and landed on the road on the far side. There were wolves on the sidewalks, screeching Londoners climbing fences or poles or trees or whatever else to get away from them, others urgently on the phone to animal control, as a feisty few were taking whacks at them with bags or coats. The wolves themselves, of course, just wanted to get somewhere safe, trying to dodge the gauntlet and not be caught, as Will heard approaching sirens in the distance. Probably the Met with stun guns and K-9 units and possibly a special ops sort or two. He sped up, grabbed the nearest wolf by the scruff, and dragged them off the pavement into the green space of the park beyond, behind a tree. He turned back into a human himself, groaning at the pain; he was really bloody feeling those wounds from Gold. “Change!” he snarled. _“NOW!”_

The panicked wolf was still struggling, thinking he was being attacked and kidnapped, and Will dodged as scything claws flashed overhead. Realizing that calm and rational discourse would get him nowhere, he shifted again, head-butted the other one hard enough to daze him, and pinned him down until sense trickled back into his disengaged higher-decision-making cranial faculties, and he turned into a human, gasping. “What the – _what the hell is going –_ ”

“Sorry, mate.” Will, having likewise returned to his handsome self for the second time, gave him a bracing pat on the shoulder. “This just really isn’t anyone’s night. Stay down and away from the police, and get out of here, all right? Get anyone else still running around like an idiot out of change too. Otherwise – ”

The wolf didn’t appear to be listening. Instead his eyes were fixed, staring, on something just behind Will’s left shoulder, and he turned slowly, too slowly, even though he couldn’t have done it any faster. At the thing flashing down from the trees, fangs fully bared and eyes completely coal-black, as it hit the wolf, got him by the throat, and tore. Half a desperate gurgle, a gush of blood, and he hit the ground, staring at Will in mute accusation. Another jerk, and that was it.

Will stared back at the dead wolf in complete, catatonic shock. He was vaguely aware that in the last seconds of his life, the other one must have been convinced that Will had set him up: dragged him off alone, away from the pack, tricked him into turning back into a man, and thus rendered him utterly defenseless for the attack from above. Realized all his worst suspicions about him, a Teeth-lover and traitor to his own kind, who’d happily murder them to stay in the good graces of a monster, must have been justified. Died believing it, and without a single godforsaken reason not to.

 _Bloody hell._ Will went to his knees, almost collapsing, but the vampire was coming around for a second pass, and there was no time for it. He couldn’t tell if it was one of Nimue’s henchmen, another of her mesmer victims who would be just as horrified when they woke up and realized what they had done, or a member of Arthur’s coven. None of the options were good, and he didn’t have time to contemplate, barely time to shift into a wolf and just dodge what would likewise have been a fatal grip on his carotid artery.  He wanted to kill this bastard, no matter who they were or if they were here willingly or not, and he had never felt like this before. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see more blurs of motion, something streaking across the night. There were more of them. An entire ambush, waiting for the wolves.

Will did not think of himself as either a fighter or a killer. It wasn’t the way they did things anymore, after all. Even Quinn, arse though he was, had this plan intended to get werewolves with the modern program, with doing something productive with their lives, with taking pride in who they were. But there was something much older and much darker having its way with Will, and he didn’t see a way to stop until it was through, and that was when he had the vampire flat and twitching, blood spreading into the grass, and he was staring at Will just as the wolf had, as if all of them were trying to work out how the fuck this had happened and would like to reset the game and go back to the last level. As if this really, really just could not be happening.

He was still sprawled on his side, wondering how long he would see this in his nightmares (that predicated on the absurdly optimistic notion that he’d live long enough to have them) when somebody pulled at him, and he looked up to see Anita, exasperatedly dragging him away like a den mother wrangling a misbehaving pup. He struggled more or less to his feet (wasn’t quite sure how many he had, but it still felt like four) and trotted after her, hearing the sirens start to pull up in the street. Police, an ambulance or two, the fire brigade. Well, this was bloody splendid. Where the hell was Liam? Had he and Quinn killed each other, or – or –

Will’s brain was whirling like a carnival ride, one he very much would like to get off, but which was unfortunately without its brakes. Anita hauled him behind a wheelie bin and smacked him (he couldn’t help but feeling she enjoyed this) until he realized he was a bloke again, and staggered after her in the direction of the trail of chaos leading back toward Lunar. “Wait,” he gasped. “There’re others back there, vampires – I killed one of ‘em but there are more – the pack’s goin’ to run into the rest of them and – ”

“I’m aware of it,” Anita snapped. There was blood running down her face as well from several nasty-looking gashes by her hairline, and drying around her mouth. She looked pale and grim and furious. “So much for the vampires not wanting a war!”

Will started to say something, realized he had absolutely nothing to convince her, and concentrated on making it back, briefly wondering if someone had nicked his bike (mistaken priorities, perhaps, but he liked that bike, and it had not been bloody cheap). Lunar itself was the center of the blast zone. The front door hung open, half off its hinges, the neon sign was out, broken glass and bits of metal were scattered everywhere, and there was no apparent sign of sound or movement from within. He advanced gingerly, back and legs ablaze with pain, not sure he could manage another transformation. “Liam? Liam!”

Something shattered inside, followed by a heavy thump. He wasn’t keen to walk into the middle of what could be the last, desperate legs of an alpha fight, but he also was not about to look Killian in the eye and tell him he’d done nothing, just because of some old werewolf rule, when his brother was in trouble. He paused a split second longer, then darted into the dark hallway, past the wristband station and over a fallen velvet rope. “Liam!”

There were two shadows ahead, one on its back amongst the debris and the other kneeling over it, heaving for breath, bloody and battered. The former wasn’t moving much, and Will hurtled the overturned emcee stand, skidding on the remnants of the bar mirror. “Hey. You. You!”

The victor looked up. His eye was completely swollen shut, his face lacerated with half a dozen new scratches, shirt torn off his shoulder and curls matted to his head with sweat. “Jesus bloody Christ,” Liam Jones managed. “I never want to do that again.”

There was a feeble stirring movement from beneath them, and Will looked down to see that Quinn, while resembling a rasher of freshly pummeled meat more than either a human or a large carnivorous quadruped, was at least still breathing. He eyed them through a mostly closed, blood-gummed eye with confusion and apprehension, as an alpha defeated in a challenger fight didn’t always, or sometimes even usually, survive the experience. There were statutes on the books about it, but prosecutions were very rare, and only pushed for if the challenger or the alpha had been exceptionally violent or cruel. Otherwise, if you fought a clean fight, won, and killed your opponent, nobody was liable to say a word about it.

“Come on,” Quinn croaked. “Whatever you’re doing, get on with it.”

Liam didn’t answer, apparently lost in a trance, until Will tugged on his sleeve. “Oy, I know I’m spoilin’ whatever moment is supposed to be happening here, but we’ve got a problem. There are bloody murderous vampires out there, I had to do for one of ‘em already, and the pack is panicking and the police are about to start askin’ some awkward questions. I can’t handle it, I can barely stand up. You need to get out there and deal with it.”

The reverie lasted another few seconds, until Liam snapped out of it. He nodded once, turned away, and said, “You see to him, then.” With that, he shifted again, loping down the rubble-strewn hallway and out into the night. Sirens were still going like dull klaxons, the building’s own alarm system flashing and blinking, until Will got up, limped to the wall, and hit the control panel with his fist until it stopped. Foolproof method.

He stole a look back at Quinn, debated what he was going to do, then heaved himself across to the remains of the bar, dug around until he found a first-aid kit, and returned, kneeling next to the fallen alpha and doing his best to patch up the most important bits. Quinn watched him but didn’t say a word, both of them doubtless well aware that this was the last wolf he would ever have imagined trusting with his life, until Will finished, sat back, and said, “Well, you’re not going to cark it. But if this still works the way it usually does, you’re out of a job.”

Quinn eyed him balefully, adjusting the plaster on his broken nose. “Was that your plan all along? Bring some mercenary thug here and depose me?”

“Mate, we came here trying to stop a war. Think Anita was even being smart about it too, unlike you. Then your troll punched me, Liam got mad, and the two of you did the rest. Looks like you’ve only got yourself to blame, honestly. And don’t call him a thug.”

Quinn evidently considered that the time to pick a second fight was not when he was barely in one piece from the last one, and shut his mouth sullenly. That so, Will decided that his work here was done, got up with a moan, and left Quinn sitting in the middle of his wrecked club with its stupid name, picking his way down the hall and out into the night. He really wanted to go home, have a hot shower, take a box of painkillers, eat a whole pack of Jaffa Cakes with a nice cuppa, then get into bed and sleep until next year, but he was clearly not about to be so fortunate, and there was work to do.

The first thing he saw was flashing lights. Some London cop in an “Unacceptable Behaviour Team” vest (in case you forgot exactly how British they were) was frowning at Liam and attempting to ask questions, while Anita was organizing the stragglers, making sure nobody was still wolfed-out and therefore would not cause the fine UBT fellow to shit his Metropolitan-issued uniform pants. Will glanced around nervously for more evil vampires, but didn’t see any. What was going in other werewolf hangouts across the city? Had Nimue and Arthur sent out their combined squadrons of shit-stirrers to make sure things got hot? It seemed likely, especially if they weren’t just going to sit back and hope ordinary people got mad enough to start a war on their own. That, unfortunately, was never the way it worked.

Liam, upon seeing him, concluded his conversation with the UBT man, managed to get him out of there (that must have been a feat, what with the evidence of Unacceptable Behaviour everywhere, but then, he’d probably already given Liam a ticket for £40 and a warning not to do it again, or _there would be an ASBO)_ and jogged over to Will. “Welcome back to the London pack,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll make the most of it.”

“Ah – ” Will was about to ask if Liam could do that, then remembered, of course, that he could. It was remarkable that he had managed to make it from Gold’s slave to London Alpha within a few weeks, but no more remarkable than the fact that he had gotten himself and Killian out of slavery and into the Royal Navy as commissioned officers the first time around. Will supposed there was something poetic, and more than a little poignant, about Liam finally finding a crew again, becoming a captain, in the same city where it had all been violently taken from the Jones brothers before, so long ago. After being made a wolf in the worst imaginable circumstances, and spending the centuries as a mindless monster, Liam was finally and truly coming into his own, and that, perhaps more than anything else thus far, gave Will hope that they could actually stop Gold and make it out the other side. Maybe. Maybe.

“Quinn’s not going to snuff it, unfortunately,” Will said instead. “Left him inside. But what about her?” He nodded at Anita. While theoretically, Betas were bound to the pack no matter which Alpha led it, and thus she was supposed to accept her new boss and enforce his orders without question, that was another custom that had encountered increasing pushback. Betas who didn’t like a victorious challenger – or had been eyeing the succession for themselves – could and did take them out in the name of protecting the pack, and Anita was, as well established, not someone in the habit of doing something because a man told her to. Feeling chemistry or a spark with Liam, or simply being interested in a few rounds of energetic doggy-style, was not the same as accepting Killian Jones’ brother and Gold’s former slave as leader of the pack and the culture she and Quinn had been trying to build. It wasn’t even any guarantee that she would help them stop the war, especially after the alpha fight had practically half-started it.

Liam hesitated. “I don’t know. There’s a crisis to manage right now, and both of us agree on the need to do so, so the rest of the politics can come later. But – ”

“What?” Will prompted, confused, when Liam abruptly cut himself off and frowned. “But we can what? Liam? Hello?”

“Something’s wrong.” Liam’s head snapped up, eyes dark and worried. “Something’s wrong with Killian.”

“What? How can you know that?”

“I just can. I need to find him.” Liam whirled away. “Where’d you leave the bike?”

“Same place we put it. But – ” Will had to run to keep up. “You’ve still got a mess to clean up here, and – bloody hell, if he’s in danger, I care about it as much as you do. Let me go, I’ll – ”

“It’s not quite danger. It’s just. . . it’s not good.” Liam didn’t break stride. “Just get the bike. I’ll tell Anita that I’ll be back shortly. We don’t want to waste time.”

Will, confused and intimidated, nonetheless obeyed, swinging astride the bike and gunning it to life. The sleek black Ducati Diavel did not come with two seats, but he’d modified it, adding a pillion so Elsa could ride with him, and while he didn’t know what exactly Liam said to Anita, the older wolf reappeared a moment later, jumped up behind him, and ordered, _“Go!”_

Will switched on the headlight and zoomed out, following Liam’s terse directions in his ear, apparently to where his bad feeling was the strongest. It didn’t look as if they were heading back to Killian’s house in Russell Square, as he certainly wouldn’t have needed directions to get there, but somewhere else, until he instinctively sensed, in that way all werewolves could, that they were now on vampire territory and not welcome. “Liam, where the blazes are we – ”

“Just do it!”

Will shut his mouth hard enough to hear his teeth click, and did as told. They roared around a corner, dodged through slow-moving traffic to the sound of angry honks and a few middle fingers thrust out windows, shot the wrong direction up a one-way street, and zoomed across a sidewalk, arriving in rather spectacular fashion on an extremely luxe residential street in Kensington. At this Will, who had of course spent a while poking around the Old Ones registry on Killian and Emma’s instigation, and thus become familiar with a certain vampire potentate, felt something drop horrifyingly into place. “Bloody hell, this is Arthur’s!”

They skidded to a halt between a Ferrari and a Lamborghini, jumped off, and pelted up the steps. Liam banged on the door, but when nobody answered, he snarled, took a swipe at it, and bashed it open. Will, recognizing the characteristic desperation of a Jones to get to an endangered loved one no matter the cost, decided not to say a word about how forcing their way into the Potentate’s residence could horridly backfire later, and ran after him. The place looked strange, unbalanced, as if some great force had swept through it and scoured it raw, and he had the oddest sensation that a deep bell had just finished ringing, far away, and the echoes were still trembling on the edge of hearing. They pounded through one last door, and into the parlor.

Inside, it did look very much as if a bomb had gone off. A vampire Will didn’t recognize, but whom he was quite certain had to be Zelena Mills, lay among the broken furniture, driven through with a stake that gave him the cold wibblies just to look at; there was some bloody nasty stuff in that thing. Henry was holding Arthur prisoner on the couch with a silver letter opener, and a wild-eyed Killian was kneeling on the floor, shaking drops of blood from his wrist into a set of unassuming bronze scales and swearing when nothing happened. At their entrance, he looked up, started badly, then shouted, “What are you doing? Get out of here, it’s not safe!”

“What are _you_ doing?” Liam stared at him. “Are those – where’s Emma?”

“I don’t know!” Killian bit himself deeper, as if more blood might do the trick. “Nimue – she was here, she was going to kill her with my old stake – Zelena threw herself in the way – then Emma did this, there was an almighty explosion, and both of them vanished. And I can’t – bloody – follow – her!”

“Christ, love, don’t!” Will grabbed Killian’s wrist as he appeared set to tear his own hand off, just in case. “We’ll think of something, all right? We will. And what do you mean, your old stake?”

Killian looked at him with eyes like two bleak, hollow pits of despair. “The stake I designed to kill Gold, a hundred years ago,” he said. “Nimue found it somehow, she was planning to use it on Emma. Zelena intervened. This is my fault, Will. This is all my fault.”

“Shh, love, no, no, it’s not. Emma did what she had to, and we’ll find her. But Zelena, is she – ” Will glanced in her direction. “Is she – ”

“Emma?” Zelena’s voice came faint and painfully, as she struggled to lift her head, but couldn’t. “Is Emma all right?”

“I don’t know.” Killian stared at the wall. “I have no bloody idea what happened to her.”

Will glanced at Zelena’s prone body, surprised and confused. The last he had been aware, she had been solidly a member of Team Bad, so to hear that she had been wounded, probably mortally, to save Emma’s life and stop Nimue was news to him. He knew that Killian had designed the stake to cause maximum pain and a very slow death, so Zelena probably had a while more to suffer until the end, and there was no way he knew of to cure double cedar-and-silver poisoning. Bloody hell. That was a shit way to go, no matter who you were.

“Wait,” Henry said. “When I staked you, Killian, under Gold’s mesmer. That one was made of cedar too. He said he was the only vampire to survive it, and he had a potion to cure it. He gave half the dose to you, remember? Or rather, had Liam do it. There’s still another one somewhere.”

Killian stared at him. “What – try to find that medicine? For _her?”_

“Nobody is more surprised to be suggesting this than me,” Henry said. “But she just saved Emma’s life and possibly allowed us to stop Nimue, and we can all agree that nobody deserves this. We owe it to ourselves to at least try.”

“Just – find Emma.” Zelena coughed. “Don’t – waste time with me. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell – tell her I love her. Please.”

“We’re going to save you.” Henry looked at Liam. “I didn’t give up on you, and Killian and Regina didn’t let me die. And since I’m guessing you’re the only one of us who’s old enough and has enough silver tolerance to get that thing out, can you please do that?”

Liam hesitated, then nodded. He crossed the floor to Zelena, took brisk hold of the stake, and pulled it out of her with a quick, sharp motion, as she gasped and arched her back in agony. “We should destroy this. It’s too dangerous to risk it falling into the wrong hands again.”

Killian looked up at him, only then noticed the extent of his brother’s injuries, and blanched. “Jesus. What happened to you?”

“Small distraction at the werewolf club.” Liam carried the stake back and glanced around, as if searching for a nearby incinerator to toss it into. “But we may have extra help, if we play our cards right.”

“By that he means,” Will said, “that your silly brother more or less accidentally became the Alpha of the London Pack tonight, and the City wolves are supposed to follow him now, though who knows if they will or not. It was eventful.”

“He what?” Killian looked even more stunned. Then a smile broke across his dark, shadowed, sorrowful face, as if the sun had finally shone through the clouds after a terrible storm. It made him look very young, almost unmarred by the tragedy and violence of his long life, glowing with pride and love. “Bloody hell, Li, what do you know. I’m almost sorry I missed that.”

 _“Alpha of the London Pack?”_ It was Arthur who spoke, looking incredulous. “Do you know who I am? I’m the vampire potentate, and if you’re bursting into my house like this, I have to consider the Tails very seriously in breach of the Accords of – ”

“Shut up,” Killian advised him, close to a growl. “You’ve got no leeway at all to be complaining about breaches of supernatural law, mate. Not once we tell everyone what you’ve done. Your days in any sort of power are bloody over.”

Arthur eyed him evilly, but Henry was still pointing the silver letter opener in his face, and he had to confine further disapproval to a huff. Then Will said, “So. You’re the head of a werewolf pack now, Liam, and this all started because Gold sicced a pack on you. If we’re going to find out if he’s weakened at all, and if we _are_ going to get that stuff for Zelena, it may be time to, you know. Bring things full circle. And we might not want to get rid of that stake just yet.”

Killian glanced at him, confused. “You mean Liam should take the pack against him?”

Will shrugged. “Aye,” he said. “I do. You have to admit it’s poetic justice. And that stake is still the only thing that might be able to kill him, once he’s had his powers stripped. I know you want to find Emma, love. I’ll do everything I can to help – I’ll go back to that bloody cave to get Merlin for you, if I have to. But we have to do this too. You know we do.”

Killian was silent for a long moment, staring at the floor. It was clear, even if he had not yet said it, that this plan would involve bringing him face-to-face with the wolves of London, when he was their ancient enemy, the scourge of their ancestors, the darkest and most terrible part of his past. That now his brother was their Alpha, that all had changed, that his mind was clearly utterly fixated on following Emma. But just now, the way was shut. The scales did not work for him, or for anyone who wasn’t her. He would not stop until he found something, they all knew that. Yet the possibility was just as strong that they would never see her again. And there was still a chance that war that might break out. That everything else would go down in flames. Dawn, in any sense of the word, seemed very far away.

“Aye,” Killian said at last, barely above a whisper. “So we do.”


	27. Chapter 27

Oddly enough, the first thing Emma was aware of was not absence, but presence. Something much larger than her, sentient and waiting, radiating out through every molecule of her body and weaving her into a vast spiderweb, a finely tuned network where the pluck of one strand could reverberate however impossibly far away on another. A few years ago, reasoning that if she actually was going to live for centuries she shouldn't be an idiot, and wanting to be able to talk to Henry about something intellectual, she had made a determined effort to improve her GED-level education, getting her butt kicked by eleventh-grade algebra, brushing up on presidents and world wars and such, reading a few works of Classic Literature, and tackling _The Elegant Universe._ The complicated theoretical mathematics of the more abstruse sections had eluded her (as well as Henry, as he cheerily admitted that most English professors became such due to their hatred of this subject) but she had retained a bit. About the unexplainable things the world did on a subatomic level, and, of course, the thought paradox of Schrödinger's Cat, that it was only the act of looking, of fixing it in your mind, that determined the reality of one outcome over another. At the time, she had wondered if such elemental weirdness (to use the scientific term) could be responsible for the existence of supernaturals, if the particles that made them had gotten stuck into a different state of being and couldn't flux back, if they might be localized disruptions of space-time in otherwise mundane reality. If ordinarily, the mutations that permitted super strength and speed and endurance passed through a human body and left no trace, but vampires and werewolves were locked into them, like a doomed star drawn into a black hole. And who knew? That might be how the Book of the Dead's spell worked, activating some old genetic impulse to return to stardust. Everyone who had seen a space movie recently knew that by observable, provable principles of physics, you could go out at a certain age and return seemingly at that same one, only to find that hundreds and hundreds of years had passed back home. If you could replicate that reaction on a micro level, within one body instead of the trackless infinity of space, wouldn't immortality be the practical result?

Emma had no idea why this had bubbled up again, at least not at first, until memory began to trickle back in. Nimue, the blood, the scales, the judgement on whether either of them could continue burning as their own stars, or if the mutations had to be reversed, regularity restored, undoing the atomic switches that kept them immune to time, to age, to death. She didn't know what had happened, or if anything had; she didn't feel any different, or even anything at all. And so, it occurred to her ironically, that must make her Schrödinger's Vampire. By the act of opening her eyes, by observing whether she was living or dead, she was the one to determine which it was. She had a furry notion of a related concept called quantum suicide, that even if you died and severed yourself from one reality, there had to be a competing one generated where you survived. Whether you could get there or do anything about it or whether it might be the reason people saw or felt your "ghost," who knew. But her still being able to think, still aware of herself as an entity in some recognizable fashion, seemed to indicate that some part of _her_ had survived the journey. What it was, or how long it lasted, or what it accomplished in the least degree, she had no idea. But she, Emma Swan, was here. Wherever _here_ was.

Emma flicked one eye open, but didn't see anything. She was aware of cold, of mud, of lying sprawled in it, and of feeling sore in a way she hadn't for a long time. She was heavier, slower, clumsy, like she was trying to drive an armored tank with the controls blown out, rather than the light, fleet, fast assault vehicle that was her vampire body, and her senses were as dull as if her head had been wrapped in stifling black cloth. She not only couldn't see, but couldn't hear or smell either, making her feel like some fragile, defenseless thing, a baby bird that had fallen out of the nest, alone in the darkness. She was tired, she was beaten, she was so very, very hungry, but when she probed with her tongue along the ridge of her teeth, she didn't feel any fangs, and the thought of drinking blood was repulsive. What had – had it –

Panicking, Emma sat bolt upright. "Killian?" she shouted. "Henry? Killian! HENRY! KILLIAN!"

"They're not here, I'm afraid," a voice said, near at hand. "No one else, either. Only us, _universus."_

She spun around, feeling impossibly slow to see the hooded figure sitting on a broken wall, among a scatter of heavily moss-grown ruins. By blinking a few more times, she could just make out the silvery edge of the moon behind a veil of clouds, the thick trees to every side, and the brilliant band of stars overhead, brighter and clearer than she had ever seen. The wind was whipping through the branches and making them moan, tangling her hair over her face, as she looked at Nimue and said coolly, "Where are we?"

The cloaked figure's shoulders moved in a shrug. "Camelot," she said after a moment. "By the looks of things. Somewhere deep in the Welsh forest, long since lost. The last place I was mortal."

"Which you destroyed." Emma fumbled for her phone, wondering if she could Google Maps her way from "King Arthur's legendary castle" to Cardiff or Swansea or wherever was closest, from whence she could get a train back to London, but it was completely dead. She had a sense that this place was the same as Merlin's sanctuary in the cave, a fold of reality just off the main one where people couldn't come by accident, and wondered if that lent any credence to the string-theory explanation for this entire shebang. "Seems you did a pretty thorough job."

A flash of a derisive smile showed under Nimue's hood. "If that was a compliment, thank you. If you'd been there, you would have agreed on what had to be done. Both Merlin and Arthur needed to be stopped, so I stopped them."

"And took the Book of the Dead to create vampires and terrorize the world," Emma said. "So I wouldn't point any self-righteous fingers."

Nimue made an exasperated sound. "You're so tiresome. And because of it, you've made a terrible mistake, but it isn't too late to undo it. We are in the balance of the scale right now, you and I. As you may have noticed by the fact that we are both currently human, and it is _not_ a pleasant feeling. You can swing it to one side, to make this horrid outcome permanent, or you can swing it back to the other, and restore our immortality. Frankly, I was not expecting you to get this far at all, but that was my mistake. Perhaps Merlin wasn't merely having a bad jape after all when he identified you as the _universus,_ was he?"

Emma regarded her silently. She could already tell that Nimue wasn't lying about this at least, as the heavy, clumsy, blinded burden of humanity, when she'd been so long accustomed to the clearer, higher resonance of supernatural existence, was practically physical pain, her cells twisting and stunting back into the shrunken, static, impotent versions of themselves. She wanted nothing more than to switch the machine back on, to be herself again, but she also knew if she did, their last chance of doing the same to Nimue, of weakening her enough to be stopped, would be gone. She didn't see the actual scales either; they must have been left behind in Arthur's mansion, or been a gateway of sorts to this strange halfway-between. The balance. But she had a feeling that whichever choice she made, they would register.

"You don't want to be human again," Nimue went on, when she didn't immediately answer. "I know you don't. Nobody ever does, no matter how much they claim they miss cheeseburgers or daytime television or whatever other pitiful little reasons to desire it over being the strongest hunter alive. Right now, you feel slow and stupid and weak, don't you? Think of all the safety you'd be giving up, dwindled to a frail useless thing that would need her men to protect her for the rest of her miserably short life. Watching their world go on without you. Never part of it again. I know your past, Emma. I know where you started. Don't go back to being nothing."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Oh, I think I do." Nimue laughed, low in her throat. "An abandoned baby, given up at birth by her parents who never came back, who never found her home and never found her family and has wrestled her entire life, whether mortal or immortal, with the knowledge that she just does not matter to anyone or belong anywhere. And now you've finally discovered a place where you could, and you're just going to throw that away? Don't be a fool, Emma. If you're not a vampire, if you're not immortal, you can't have a life with them. You'll die alone, wondering if this was all just a dream. You'll forget, you know. Every year that goes by as a mortal, you'll forget that there was ever anything else. Soon, you won't even know what you gave up, except for an ache in your very soul that never goes away. Do you _want_ to make everything worthless?"

"I – " She should have had a response for that, but didn't. Nimue was undeniably an extremely skilled manipulator, must have hit Killian in similar weak spots to get him to agree to do her bidding, and worse, Emma could feel herself starting to crack. Part of her thought this fate might be easier to swallow if she forgot, but she didn't want to. She didn't want to forget her own son again, after what she had already done to him. Didn't want to forget Liam and Will. Didn't want to forget Regina. Didn't even want to forget Zelena. And God, oh God, how very much did she not want to forget Killian. Even if she should. Even if it would have been safer. To close her eyes, and let the waters of the river Lethe take her.

"That's it," Nimue crooned, feeling her succumbing. "That's right, Emma. You know that's what you're supposed to do. Just a quick push back, and you have your life again. You're not going to give that up. Who would blame you? Just choose it, and – "

She was so close. She was so very, achingly close. But at that moment, something cut through the increasingly chaotic jumble in her head, sharp and cold as a knife, until she jerked around and stared directly at Nimue. "How do you know what happened with my parents?"

The older woman seemed startled. "What?"

"How do you know what happened with my parents?" Emma repeated, low and levelly. "I've never told you that. Never told any other vampire, in fact. And even if I had, I don't think you can possibly know everything that every vampire does, like some kind of central deposit library, because otherwise you would have done a lot of things very differently. So. How do you know?"

There was a long, horrible silence. Then Nimue reached up with both hands, took hold of her hood, and puled it down – revealing that instead of her young, dark-haired, lovely immortal form, she was a withered, twisted old hag, almost bald, hunchbacked and evil-eyed, who would clearly crumble into dust if the scales went through with their judgment of mortality, and all her centuries of stolen time collapsed on her at once. Seeing Emma's shocked expression, she cackled. "You don't look so fresh yourself, princess. Very well. You want to know what happened to your parents? I killed them. Do you really think that _Gold_ was the only one to identify that you were prophesied to be the _universus,_ and make his plans accordingly? No. I knew that you were supposed to be my downfall, so I took steps to prevent it. They died trying to save you. And because of that – " She shrugged angrily. "I couldn't hurt you. Not directly. A defenseless, squalling human newborn. So I've waited. I've tried all sorts of things to see who you were going to be, if I could neutralize you as a threat, or bring you to my side. And now, my dear. It's led us here. What's it going to be?"

Emma stared at her. Once more, she said nothing, because there was nothing _to_ say, barely even to think – nothing but the realization that when Merlin had first mentioned he was a Dumbledore fan, he had been giving her a bigger clue than she ever realized about how deep the similarities ran. After their talk in the cave, when she had likened the scales to the sword of Godric Gryffindor, and he had told her that the best stories always shared some kernel of truth – this neither-can-live-while-the-other-survives synergy that bound her and Nimue – and now, apparently, it went to the very beginning. Her chest felt raw, almost bursting. She was aware of the need to breathe, but didn't seem to remember how. To believe her entire life that she had been abandoned without a backward glance, that her parents had never once cared enough to discover what had become of her – but instead they had wanted her, had fought to save her from the fucking Queen of the Damned, who must have had child's play of it in killing them? It was too much. She couldn't absorb it at once. All she could manage, in a strangled croak, was, "What. . . what were their names?"

Nimue looked amused. "Now there's a useless question. Why don't you ask instead how – "

"TELL ME!"

Ever so faintly, the hag flinched. Then she said, "Snow and James. Horribly dull people, really. Though interestingly, rather like that Nolan couple who took Henry in after you failed him. Almost as if you were subliminally searching for what you never knew you had, isn't it? There, do you feel fulfilled? As if you know who you truly are? I didn't think so. They're just words, just names, no more meaning than someone you met once in passing. The only mother of any consequence to you is Zelena. Neither of us were expecting her to try to save you, were we? There could be a chance. Get us back there as vampires, and maybe you could repay the favor."

Emma still couldn't breathe, except for those jerking, fluttering gulps that did absolutely nothing either to supply her oxygen or to wrestle her back under control. She clenched her fists, feeling hot tears swimming under her eyelids, rolling down her cheeks in a fog of salt, until she feared that if she started in earnest, she might never stop. She was still aware that she had to get the Book of the Dead back somehow, steal that spark, before Nimue could be destroyed, and that if she acted in impulsive rage and revenge, she could make a catastrophic mistake, possibly wipe out most of the other vampires in the world and make Gold's job that much easier. She was just a human, a fifty-year-old woman, who had no special powers or strength to help her. She didn't even know how. Whichever way she turned, she lost everything. She just stood there, utterly and completely heartbroken.

Sensing her victory, Nimue braced herself and rose to her feet, her tattered robes flapping madly in the wind. She seemed to be getting stronger, physically and mentally, the more Emma weakened. "There," she said, almost a hiss. "You understand, don't you? Good girl. Now put an end to this madness. You were, and will be, nothing. And now – "

"I am _not_ nothing." Emma's head came up with a jerk. "I was never nothing. Otherwise you wouldn't have tried to Voldemort me when I was a baby, would you? But even that wasn't what made me dangerous. If I've learned one thing through this entire adventure, it's because people keep telling that _this is my choice._ And I think I know just fine what this one needs to be."

Nimue had not expected that. "Don't be a stupid little girl, Emma. You have no idea what you're doing. Now if you don't want me to – "

She raised her wizened claw, about to gather up some fireball or other magical attack, if that power hadn't been stripped from her as well with her immortality. In any event, as Emma was preparing to face it, since she couldn't exactly do much else, there was a soundless explosion and the air did something strange, folding and shimmering as if one of those localized disruptions had been triggered, stretching the cosmic fabric of this particular square mile of Welsh forest into a new and particular configuration. The next instant, there was another hooded figure standing where nobody had been an instant before, who raised their own hand, and the sputtering of flame in Nimue's fingers went out. "You know," a familiar voice said. "You can't do that anymore."

" _You."_ Nimue whirled around. "Are you really such a martyr as to come here to die? You know what I'll do to you."

"What you tried to do," the newcomer corrected. He put his hood down, starry robes whispering in the grass as he moved closer with a sort of sinuous glide. "Tried to kill me, or rather, tried to get someone else to do it, because you can't. You don't have that crutch here. Hasn't this waited long enough, Nimue? You and I, settling our final reckoning?"

"Merlin," Emma said inanely. "What – what are you doing here?"

"Do you think you two are the only ones who know where Camelot is?" He smiled faintly, sadly. "I told you that the time might come for me to decide what I was willing to risk, just like you. And I believe that this is it."

Nimue still seemed thrown, more than could be accounted for merely by Merlin's surprise appearance – even though she had kept him powerless and imprisoned for a cool few millennia and a half, and had just tried to kill him in the cave a night ago, it still must be unsettling to have him show up here like this. But there was something else, and as Emma looked at the hag, she thought she glimpsed the faintest tinge of regret in the hollowed, rheumy eyes. As if once, long ago, there had been nothing that mattered more to these two people, escaped Egyptian slave and beautiful young gardener, than each other, and the future they wanted to build together, forever. As if then, there likewise would have been nothing they would not have done to get back to each other, to challenge all the strictures and impossibilities telling them otherwise, and with an ache beyond words, Emma wondered if that was why she had to give Killian up. If otherwise she would become Nimue, prizing selfish attachments and personal happiness over all the damage she was doing – but why, _why_ was this the choice? Did heroes end up alone because they had to be willing to sacrifice whatever was asked of them, and was that heroism or masochism? Not to mention, being a hero's loved one seemed like a serious occupational hazard, never knowing if they would choose you or feel justified in giving you up in the name of the greater good. When she put Henry into foster care after her change, she knew empirically it was because she, as a fledgling vampire whose life had already been in shambles beforehand, simply could not take care of a ten-year-old mortal boy, and that had proved to be true. It had indeed been what was best for him, as awful and terrible as it was. And now, at least she wasn't sacrificing anyone else. Just herself. That, if nothing else, would have to be her solace.

"Well," Nimue said, after another brief hesitation. "As usual, you won't ultimately be any use to anyone, so you just waited slightly longer than expected to watch it end. Which of you wants to die first?"

"I don't think that's relevant." Merlin looked at Emma. "Take the spark from her. Now."

"How? I don't have any power left, I'm just a – "

"As if either of you pathetic do-gooders could actually manage to – "

"NOW!" Merlin bellowed, throwing up both hands. An eerie glow exploded from them in dazzling concentric circles, freezing Nimue in place, as Emma instinctively flashed out a hand as well, feeling a terrible tension connecting her and Nimue like a crackling electrical current. She pulled on it with all her might, like trying to reel in a huge, thrashing fish on a line, as Merlin's immobilization spell was visibly weakening as Nimue threw everything she had into fighting it. But that split second of distraction, of not being able to devote her full concentration to repelling Emma, was crucial. Emma yanked one more time, felt something break, and a fist-sized fireball, the very origin of vampire existence and the Book of the Dead in its enchanted form, flew across the dark air between them, into her hands. It rattled her from head to foot like a lightning strike, spat sparks, and vanished into her skin. She could feel it scorching her veins like an out-of-control chemical reaction, trying to find a supernatural genome to mesh to and coming up empty, and knew she couldn't contain it for long. It would burn her up and leave her ash.

"Now!" Merlin shouted again, as his spell broke and Nimue charged at him, both hands flaring with lethal light. He deflected, and a sound like a bomb going off flattened half the trees with a shock wave, the two of them locked together at the center of the angry magical maelstrom. Emma rolled to all fours, nauseous and reeling, hearing the spark hissing and fizzing and spitting inside her head, trying to get to her feet and falling again. "I can't hold her for much longer, make the choice! Swing the scale over! There! The stone! Go!"

Fighting incipient unconsciousness, Emma dodged around the sorcerers' duel and ran to the broken stone that lay at the very center of the fallen castle. She wondered if it was the very same one that had contained Excalibur once upon a time, stumbled the last few paces and fell, and clutched hold of it, energy coruscating wildly off her fingers and into the scales, which had just appeared beneath them. Another shockwave buffeted her back, and when she stole a frantic glance, she could see nothing but fire. She had recently been remarking on her similarity to one fictional hero, but now she felt like another, like Frodo at the heart of Mount Doom, about to drop the Ring of Power into the fire. Gollum had of course had to give him an inadvertent hand with that, and she felt the same momentary thrall of indecision as she stared at the scales, reflecting the wild light of the colliding magical blasts behind her. If she did this, if she gave up her own Ring of Power, there was no going back. And yet, it was the only way. The only way to bring Sauron down, and hope to have enough of a future for everyone else to go on.

She squeezed her eyes shut, seared with tears and soot. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

She was burning. Burning.

She pushed the arm of the scale down.

* * *

The essence of Schrödinger's Cat was both simple and difficult to get your head around. There was a cat, and it was in a box, and something had happened to it, and the act of the observer looking in the box determined whether the cat was alive or dead. Until that moment, the cat existed simultaneously as both, because both outcomes were equally probable in the state of uncertainty that prevailed until one was fixed as the definite result. This entire time, Emma and Nimue had existed in the balance of the scale, the closed box before the observer opened it, still able to cross over to either outcome – viz. immortality and vampirism, or mortality and humanity. Nothing had been fixed, the possibilities existing in complete fluidity, hence why Nimue had been trying to convince her to swing them back to the concrete, the normal, the one they'd come from, to undo what she had done. But now the box had been opened by Emma herself, acting as the observer and the cat together, and one of those choices had been sealed, and the wobbly spaces had been closed, the pieces snapping back together, the world becoming stable and the judgment completed. No more flux. No more chance. No more. No more.

Emma felt something on her face, distant and faraway, cold and wet droplets running down her cheeks like tears, but they weren't. She opened one eye as she had before, trying to work out where she was and what had happened, and dully discerned that she was lying on her back, spread-eagled, staring up at the dark sky. It was raining, a steady, drenching drizzle, and there was no sound but the rush and hush of it striking the ground, the sigh of the wind. There was no sign of Merlin and Nimue, and their blazing duel. No sign either of the ruins of the castle. She had been forcibly ejected from that space, sent back to the real world, and they would not be coming after her. She had finished the transaction, put them through to the mortal end of the spectrum. They were dead. Ash and dust. Returning to the stars.

Slowly, slowly, Emma hauled herself upright again, all the way to her feet, hoping the rain would wash the mud off her. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to feel exultant, but she didn't. She had faced her destiny, had come into her own as the _universus,_ and defeated Nimue for good. But she was also permanently human again, and the cold, terrible foreknowledge of her fate settled over her like snow, even worse than the realization of her lost future, the loved ones who would have to bury her one day while she wouldn't have a clue who they were. _You'll forget,_ Nimue had said. _Every year that goes by as a mortal, you'll forget that there was ever anything else. Soon, you won't even know what you gave up, except for an ache in your very soul that never goes away._

At that, Emma wondered if it would be kinder to never go back, to let them think she had died as a hero to take down Nimue, rather than having to spill this bitter truth. Maybe if she just ran for a few years, lay low somewhere until the amnesia kicked in, that was the best thing she could do for herself. A bail bondsperson would have work anywhere there was crime, which was anywhere in the world, and she should move somewhere there wasn't much of an established supernatural community, to speed her in letting go. Australia? Vampires didn't really live there, what with it being hot and sunny all the time (and also, she supposed wryly, they didn't like competing for prey with literally the rest of the fauna on the continent). Hot Aussie werewolves, on the other hand, were always popular on Fangd, but there were a lot of open spaces in Australia, far from other humans, let alone wolves. Maybe spend a few years as a small-town sheriff somewhere in the Outback. Wasn't that the stuff that reinventing-your-life memoirs were made out of? She _was_ fifty, it wouldn't be a long-term career path, but she didn't need that. Just long enough for all of this to become a dream.

Numbly, Emma began to walk, picking through the logistics in her head. She didn't want to go back to London long enough to go through the process of reporting a "stolen passport" at the embassy, as if she did, she would break. She should be able to get a ferry to mainland Europe fairly easily, couldn't remember if they did border checks within the Schengen area – didn't think so, but even if so, she knew a few tricks. It wouldn't be that hard to visit an American consulate in Brussels or Amsterdam or Paris, get a new passport, and use it to fly to Australia. There would certainly be places operating in grey areas of criminal justice that paid in cash and didn't ask questions, which she could use to take a few jobs while she sorted out her suspect immigration status. As she'd said. She knew the tricks. She'd make something work. She had to.

The horizon started to turn pink as she trekked, which ordinarily would have been the sign that it was time to hit the hay, and indeed she heard the cheeping of her SleepyTime app from her phone, which had come back to life when out of the quantum freeze. Fighting back tears, she pulled it out, switched it off, and thumbed the glowing icon to the recycle bin; she wouldn't be needing it anymore. She paused, then deleted the Fangd shortcut as well, wondering why she was so upset over this small, stupid, pointless thing, as surely nobody had felt this much existential angst from uninstalling a program on their smartphone. It wasn't as if it did her any good now.

In a few more minutes, Emma reached what apparently passed for civilization: a road sign welcoming her to some tiny Welsh hamlet, population 314, with a name that looked something like "Llynwypsowgogllchwy" and was probably pronounced "Lenwy." She sat on a park bench, trying not to look too much like a vagrant, until she saw a sleepy barista unlock the coffee shop across the street and head inside. Once she was sure that they were in fact open, she got to her feet and approached hesitantly, feeling as nervous as if she was about to get up on stage to deliver a performance; she hadn't ordered coffee in twenty-two years. And besides, she had been turned before Starbucks and specialty espresso roasters dotted every corner and people did up their expensive drinks with all kinds of fancy custom modifications. Time to get back in the habit, apparently. With a shaking hand, she pushed the door open.

The barista took one look at Emma and asked if she was all right, as she must appear as if she had been thrown out of the house by her husband after a fight or something and had been wandering outside all night. She assured them, rather unconvincingly, that she was fine, and ordered a chocolate muffin and something called a flat white. Then, as she was obviously the only person in the shop at this hour, she took them to the back table and stared at them as expecting them to explode. Her first human meal since the start of the Clinton administration. Jesus, this was out-of-body bizarre.

Emma unwrapped the paper and nibbled cautiously at the muffin. Chocolate, actual chocolate, that she didn't have to spit out. The flat white was good too, a kind of extra-densely foamed latte, and after the rather humiliating reminder that she had to chew and swallow her food instead of merely sucking it down in liquid form, she was hungry enough to make short work of it. It tasted good, but almost dusty, as if she had to keep washing it down with water to get it out of her throat. When she finished, she supposed it was time to see how bad it was, and inhaling a deep, ragged breath, got up and went into the bathroom.

Her reflection was the first thing that hit her, almost a physical intrusion, as if someone else had walked in on her after twenty-two years of not seeing it, of being used to existing merely as a singularity, without any kind of trace or duplication. Once she got over the shock and could take in the fact of her own face staring back at her, she had to admit it could be worse. She'd only had two decades and change to catch up with, rather than Nimue's thousands of stolen years, and at least she appeared to have aged well. There were thick silver streaks in her hair, but it was still mostly blonde, and nothing was too saggy. Crow's-feet and fine lines webbed her eyes and creased her brows, but once more, it was at least recognizably her, from what she remembered of herself beforehand. No hideous hag here; indeed, if one was being bluntly honest, she'd probably pass as a "hot mama." Not that she'd ever expected to see herself like this, never a day older than her eternal, frozen twenty-eight. Yet there she was. Herself, this stranger.

Emma bent over, clutching the lip of the sink, fighting an onrush of sobs that wanted to crack her in half; not now, not here, not this time, not any more. She could feel the muffin and flat white wanting to come back up, and swallowed heavily several times to discourage it, then ran the water, wet her hands, and did her best to comb her hair, wash her face, and otherwise look less like a walking disaster. When she felt marginally steadier, or at least enough to get on with things, she unlocked the door, started to head out in hopes of catching the first train to the first place with a Channel ferry – that would probably be Plymouth or Poole, both of which ran lines to mainland France – then caught sight of the morning paper, and stopped in her tracks.

The headline and leading story was about the unexplained phenomenon of several dozen wolves running wild in the streets of west London, with nobody having a clue where they had come from or even where they had gone; the Met animal control division had caught a few, but they had somehow vanished before they could be transferred into firm custody. Wildlife experts consulted to explain if this was some kind of ancient migratory pattern sounded as baffled as anyone else; as far as anyone knew, there weren't that many wild grey wolves left in all of the British Isles, let alone terrifying citizens by galloping down Twickenham Road en masse. Maybe it was just one of those bizarre instances where animals went mad for no recorded reason; several of the wolves had been found dead with gruesome injuries, prompting the Mayor of London to issue a statement that the public was in no danger and they would be conducting an extensive investigation to be sure. Which, if Emma knew anything about these things, would consist of a few representatives from the witan paying the relevant parties a visit and mesmering them until they forgot whatever they needed to, but then again, mesmer was a vampire ability, and with things on the brink of war, it was extremely unlikely that anyone in Westminster was going to lift a well-groomed finger to help the wolves out of a sticky situation that they appeared to have only themselves to blame for. In which case, the bloodshed was barely starting.

Emma stared at the newspaper, feeling leaden. Here, as if she had needed it, was unassailable proof that the war was not won, that defeating Nimue had only removed one of a remaining myriad of threats, that even if she left her loved ones now in the name of sparing them the pain of learning about her mortality, they could just as easily be killed themselves. There was no one she was truly saving by being determined to slip out the back door to this fantasy of a new life in Australia, except herself. And even if she might have damn well earned the right to be selfish after what had been recently asked of her, she was already starting to realize that she couldn't do it. An insidious voice pointed out that she would be justified in leaving, in the name of putting as much distance between Gold and herself as possible; even he might have trouble tracking her down in the ass-end of the Southern Hemisphere. But he might also kill her family one by one to make her come out, just as he'd been perfectly candid about his willingness to do all along. That he would smoke her out, whatever it took. She was not free of this. This was not over.

Emma took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes and squaring her shoulders. She didn't know what was going to happen if she went back to London, if she'd do any good at all, if she could pull anything out of the fire. But perhaps even if she _was_ going to forget, she could try to hold on for as long as possible. Take whatever moments remained. She had a perhaps misguided belief that if she could just burn them deep enough, they could somehow survive the unmaking to come. Some things had to be too central, too part of your very soul, that nothing and no one could take from you. No evil. No time. No eternity.

She put the paper down, left the coffee shop, and went to wait for a train.

* * *

When they got back to Killian's house, which took a while and first entailed a call to the witan to get them to come and arrest Arthur, taking him away to contemplate his dismal life choices and to also have a proper look through the Old Ones registry in search of whatever else he might have been hiding, Killian himself proceeded to enliven the already massively eventful evening by collapsing. He came around to a concerned hubbub of voices, the realization that he was flat on the floor, and Will's voice remarking, "Bloody hell, you coulda told us that you had been wounded too, you know. This isn't a paper cut, love. This is bad."

"What? . . . Oh." Killian lay back, belatedly recalling the shard of cedar from the stake that he too had been pierced with, in the confusion of trying to save Emma from Nimue. That explained the abrupt departure from reality, then; he'd forgotten completely about it in the distraction of trying to follow Emma through the scales, Liam's arrival with the news that he'd become the London Alpha, his own agreement to help his brother take the wolves against Gold and thus face the darkest part of his past, Arthur's apprehension, and everything else. He explained the circumstances of his acquiring it as tersely as he could, and concluded, "Didn't seem important."

"Didn't seem important? You've got yourself a fine little case of cedar poisoning here." Will's brows drew together. "Not as bad as the witch's, obviously, but this isn't going to heal by itself, Killian. If we find the rest of Gold's antidote. . . I know the professor wants to save Greenie for whatever bloody reason, but if it's her or you. . ."

"It'll be fine." Killian tried to sit up. "I was full-on staked with cedar not that long ago, I have to have some sort of immunity. And this time it's my own stake, so I suppose it's fitting, no?"

Will continued to regard him with furrowed brows. After a moment he said, quieter, "This is still about punishing yourself, innit? In your mind, you deserve each and every tribulation that comes to you, and in fact it should be worse, because there's no possible way you can suffer as much as you think you should. Listen to me, love. You need to stop. This can't help you, and it can't help anyone else either. It's like an anchor. It'll drag all of us down. And no. You don't deserve it."

"I suppose we'll see if the wolves of London agree." Killian looked away. "Somehow I have a feeling not, and I don't blame them."

"Bugger 'em," Will said fiercely. "I mean it. Anyone puts a paw on you, tries to do anything else funny, I'll turn 'em into a rug. Liam let me back into the pack, but. . . bein' in a pack isn't about standin' mindlessly next to people you have nothing in common with, just because you've got the same genetic makeup. It's bein' loyal to your family, to your kin, to the people you love, and knowin' who are the ones to fight to the death for. That's you, Killian. It's always been you. And if you open your fat mouth now and say you don't deserve it, I will punch you square in your ugly mug, so help me God."

Killian, who had opened his mouth to utter something to that exact nature, shut it with a click. Finally he said, "Ugly mug, is it? You're wounding me."

"Shut up, you arse." Will rocked back on his heels, then offered him a hand. "Come on. Let's figure out what we're doin' about all this shite, aside from buyin' the world's biggest shovel."

Killian paused, then accepted it, allowed Will to help him up, and didn't let go immediately, pulling him in to touch their foreheads. "Thank you," he whispered. "I – just – th-thank you."

"Aye," Will said, softly against his cheek, before stepping back and leading the way into the kitchen, where Killian assured the gathered war council that he was all right. At the moment, that consisted of Regina, Henry, David, and Mary Margaret, as Liam was out trying to get the London pack under control and they had given Zelena over to the custody of the witan, who presumably had some sort of vampire hospital to stash her in. For her part, Regina was looking very tight-lipped, pacing back and forth, but at least had not run off to finish the job of murdering her sister herself, which would have to do for now.

"So," she burst out, the instant Will had helped Killian into a chair. "Jones senior has an entire new social network of furry friends, my sister supposedly did something actually useful, Arthur got arrested, and Emma is on an evil girl getaway with Nimue, did I miss anything? Not to mention the feral vampires in the streets murdering more wolves, the ever-increasing likelihood we're at war by morning, and – Killian, why are you bleeding?"

"What?" He managed a crooked, annoying smile. "Don't tell me you're worried?"

"No, didn't you know that people just normally walk around bleeding from the chest and I never say anything, but I made a special exception for you because I just couldn't live without you?" Regina looked at Will. "What's the idiot's problem?"

"His problem? Well, he _is_ an idiot, but I feel like you addressed that. He took a fragment of the stake when he tried to get between Emma and Nimue – Zelena got the actual, well, pointy bit, hence why she's dyin', but cedar wounds don't heal on their own. And that one's goin' to get worse, fast, unless we get the antidote."

"Traitor," Killian said, stung. "I just told them I was fine!"

"And you were lying, clearly." Regina regarded him grimly. "Shocking. But when Henry staked you back in New York, Gold had some kind of potion to neutralize the poison, and then Liam could just lick you back into shape in the normal way. Well, I assume that explains why you're going after him, to retrieve a dose, so – "

"What?" Henry said, frowning. "Killian, why didn't you say something?"

"It wasn't important." He stared at the tabletop. "What with every bloody other thing going on. I figured we'd get around to it later."

"Trust me," Will added, glancing at Henry. "Chewed him out a bit already for that."

"Gold has to have two doses," Henry insisted. "Or at least know how to make a second one. He wrote _Liber incarcerati,_ vampires have known about the toxic properties of cedar for centuries, that would be exactly the kind of thing that he would want to figure out how to overcome. Or if not then, definitely after _he_ got staked with it. If we find him, we can – "

"You can what? Convince him to whip up a restorative brew for _Killian and Zelena_ out of the goodness of his heart?" Regina looked utterly incredulous. "You'd have to make a deal, and I don't even want to think what Gold would charge for a favor of that magnitude. Anything he wants is something we can't afford to give to him. This isn't that hard. Stick to the plan, steal the single dose, and give it to Killian. To hell with Zelena! Why does everyone suddenly care about her anyway? Yesterday, she would have happily murdered us all. If we let her live out of a momentary misguided sense of mercy, she'll make us pay for it. Trust me."

"Yesterday, maybe yes," Henry conceded. "Today, she threw herself in front of the most lethal vampire-killing weapon that has ever been created, to save Emma's life and give us a chance to stop Nimue. If nothing else, she's earned the chance to see if she meant it."

"I don't deny that Zelena could potentially do something decent when her own daughter is involved," Regina argued. "But that's a hell of a long way from trusting that she's seen the error of her ways and wants to be a productive member of supernatural society, or even not completely psychotic! She's wicked, she loves being wicked, and if we save her – "

"And what?" Killian felt something inside him, the storm that had been building ever since he had seen Emma vanish into those scales, her last words – _I love you –_ burning a hole into his skull, since he had tried to follow her and couldn't, finally snap. "I'm somehow more worthy of being saved than she is? Or you're suddenly the one to dictate who deserves life and who deserves death, Your Majesty? Zelena was turned in, what, 1875? By that time I must have already killed two hundred wolves at least! Three! You remember how bad I was when you first came to London, in 1872, and that was still tamer than I'd been for the previous hundred and forty-one years! No matter how terrible you think she is, I'd still be worse, because I have a century and a half of a head start! So why don't you just go ahead and admit that you want her dead because she hurt you, Regina, and that you're no sainted angel yourself? If anyone deserves to die from a wound by their own stake, it's me! Maybe you can serve my head up on a bloody platter to the wolves of London, that way Liam might have a chance of making something of his new command! Perhaps it would be best. To close this old chapter, and let all of you move on."

They all stared at him, stunned by his outburst, even as he grimaced and sank back into his chair, feeling blood running down his chest from the unclosed wound. "Christ," Will said finally. "Don't talk like that, love. You're scarin' me."

"Maybe I should scare you." Killian closed his eyes, breathing in short, pained gulps that did nothing to ease the ache, both from the splinter wound and from his broken heart, radiating in his chest. "You know I should scare you. All of you. I know I do. I'm tired, Will. I'm so bloody tired. And if Emma doesn't come back, if we can't find her. . . maybe I want to sleep."

"I – Killian." Regina sounded, for once, almost at a loss for words. "I'm sure we'll find her, all right? I've known her for a while, I know she's resourceful, she's smart, and she doesn't give up. Neither do you. That's probably why the two of you like each other, or other attractions I don't need to know the details of. So I'm certainly not going to be the one to tell her, when she gets home, that you literally killed yourself with your own stubbornness because you didn't consider your benighted carcass worthy of one single dose of antidote. Got it?"

Killian kept his eyes closed. He wanted to say something back, he had some brilliantly razor-sharp repartee lined up, surely, but it vanished the instant he reached for it, and all he felt was a dull, constant pain like a toothache, sinking into his soul. "Well, then," he murmured finally. "I'm sure David can manage. Fair recompense for what I did to you, eh, mate?"

"I – " Nolan seemed almost uncertain. "What Henry said earlier, about Nimue making people do things – perhaps I was a bit, well, quick in jumping to conclusions – "

"Nobody is willing to let you die, Killian," Henry said simply. "I know you can't see it, because we rarely can do that for ourselves. But it doesn't matter. We're going to get you that antidote."

"But – "

"Look," Henry said. "If nothing else, I think it's a _really_ dumb idea to get on the bad side of the newly crowned London Alpha by letting his brother die. I'm just saying."

Killian opened his mouth, prepared to keep arguing, but Will hit him, not all that gently, in his uninjured shoulder, and he winced. "Fine, then. Suit yourselves. I still think it's a waste of time, but what do I know?"

"Nothing," Regina said. "As fairly well established. Someone take him upstairs and put him to bed, he's clearly no use to anyone at this point."

Killian managed to give her a dirty look as Will slung his arm over his shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged him up the stairs to his room, hoisting him onto the bed with a groan and regarding him dourly. "Well, you've fucked yourself up good and proper, Jones. You don't have to do this to impress anyone, you know."

"Too bad," Killian murmured. "Thought I was being very impressive."

Will snorted, then sat down next to him, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe away the blood. "Can't take the poison out, but I can seal the wound up for a bit," he said. "Mind?"

"All yours, love." Killian lay still, staring at the ceiling, as Will leaned down to lick it closed, the way Liam had done for him back in New York. It would at least stop him from walking around looking like a stabbing victim, though it wouldn't necessarily stop him from dying any faster, and he was reminded of all the other nights they had passed in this room, just wanting to shut out the rest of the world and everything it had done to them. When Will finished and pulled back, he whispered, "Hey. You know I love you, don't you?"

"Same. You're an idiot." Will leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. "Go to sleep."

Killian didn't think he would sleep in the bloody least, but exhaustion and heartbreak were a powerful downward weight, and he quickly felt himself being pulled into the sandman's clutches. Vampires didn't dream, of course, but he still had some subconscious _sense_ of something, some experience or memory, as if he was looking through a mirror or something else, and Emma was below. He couldn't hear what she was saying or see what she was doing, but he knew she was in trouble, and he was pounding in vain on the glass, trying to reach her, but he couldn't. He could see her dwindling, getting farther and farther away, until she vanished with a flash, and he knew he was yelling, shouting for her, but he wasn't making a sound. Just falling. Falling. Falling, into a great deep darkness from which he would not surface again, and drown.

Killian hit the bottom with a jerk, and woke up in a cold sweat.

He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but it felt like a while, and his first conviction was that he must be still dreaming, or whatever strange thing like it had just happened, because there was someone lying on the bed next to him. Not Will, which would have been the most likely of the currently available options, but someone else. Someone who he knew at once, but who couldn't be here, because he had just watched her vanish into the gloaming. He was terrified to reach for her, knowing she would disintegrate under his touch, but he couldn't stop himself, his hand coming up to float in the twilit air, over her arm. _Just look, just look._ But he wanted to see her face so badly, and perhaps it would linger just long enough for him, until –

He touched her shoulder, and felt something strange. She jerked, and rolled over toward him –

– it was Emma, but it _wasn't –_

– bloody hell, something was wrong with her face, with how she felt – she was _warm,_ she'd never been warm, what was going on, this was still a dream, this was still a nightmare –

"Killian." Her voice caught in her throat, almost a sob. "You weren't supposed to wake up."

"Jesus." He kept hold of her, blinking hard, as if that would resolve the flaws in the picture, connect his apparently malfunctioning senses back to reality. "Em – Emma, is that – is that really you? What in the – are you – what's going on?"

"I came back." She pushed herself up on one elbow, their hands sliding to take hold of each other, her knuckles more weathered than he remembered, as if he was looking at her twenty years older than when she had left yesterday. "I didn't know if I was going to."

"Bloody hell, love. What happened to you?"

"Nimue's dead." She didn't sound nearly as triumphant as one might expect at delivering news of such magnitude. "I made her human, and took the spark from her, with Merlin's help. They're. . they're both gone. And I. . . I was going to run, but I decided I had to come back, at least until I knew the war was over, and. . . I thought after everything, you might be in stasis. I just. . . you weren't supposed to wake up."

"You said that already. What were you planning to do?"

"Just. . . look, I suppose. And. . ." Her throat moved as she swallowed. "Say goodbye."

"Emma, love. You're _back._ I don't know what happened, but I don't care. Why would we have to say goodbye?" Agitated, he shifted upright, ignoring the hot stab of pain from his chest. "Before you vanished – what you said – was that some sort of – you said it, you said – "

"I said it, yes." Her thumbs traced light circles on the back of his hands. "Killian, I thought I might never see you again. I – I meant it, all right? I meant it. But this. . . we. . . look at me. Can't you see what happened? What it cost to defeat Nimue? What I. . . what I _am_ now?"

He stared at her, up and down, willing himself to understand what she thought was so wrong. Aye, she looked a bit more weathered around the edges, but who cared about that? He was three hundred years old, he liked a mature woman just fine, and she was still the most beautiful one he'd ever seen. "Swan, what the devil are you talking abo – "

"I'm _human!"_ Emma cried. "Can't you see? I'm not a vampire anymore! That was the price, that was what it cost to take Nimue's immortality away from her and turn her into dust! It took mine as well! That was what Merlin told me in the cave, that the scales have to balance, that whatever I put in the balance for her, I had to match it with my own. I wanted to tell you, but I. . . but I was scared, and then I thought I was going to run away and that would be best – but this – don't you understand? I. . . we. . . if we were imagining anything past this, we. . . we can't."

That rocked him badly. He opened and shut his mouth, feeling punched, somewhere between heartbroken and furious and terrified on her behalf, for coming back and putting herself into the middle of this again, his brave, beautiful swan. He struggled for the words to comfort her, to put his own pain and confusion aside, as it did neither of them any good just now. "Emma. . . I. . . you missed being a human, didn't you, love? Maybe this isn't. . . isn't so bad."

"Yes," Emma said, almost in a whisper. "I missed being a human, until recently. Then I discovered that my family are vampires and werewolves, that it was who I was, who I was always meant to be. Then I found someone I might. . . I might not have minded having all that time with. When suddenly living forever. . . didn't seem so terrifying."

Killian closed his eyes, holding tightly to her hands, simply and utterly speechless. "We'll still have a little time," he managed at last. "Thirty years or so – probably more, you were a vampire, you'll live a while. That's longer than some have, isn't it?"

Emma looked at him, eyes brimming with tears, swallowing twice before she could speak. "That's not the worst part," she said. "I'm going to forget. I don't know how quickly or how much, if being around you could slow it down, or whatever. But with every year that goes by as a mortal, I'll forget more about the supernatural world. I suppose it's some kind of defensive mechanism, so I couldn't go around blabbing. I don't know how long it would be. Probably not very, if its aim is to keep me from talking. In five years, I might not remember a thing."

"You could still remember me." He let go with one hand to lift her chin. "I don't care if you knew I was a vampire or not, or just highly nocturnal with peculiar dietary habits, I don't care! I wouldn't care if you were seventy years old and decided to adopt a bunch of bloody cats and take up bridge! Or we could find a way to reverse this. I could turn you back into a vampire. There has to be a potion or a fix or. . . or. . ." He trailed off. "Something. Somewhere. Anything."

"Do you want me as a permanent fifty-year-old?" Emma's voice was small. "Like this forever? It might not even work, since the entire point was to truly give up the same thing she did, not give it up temporarily and cheat into getting it back. And if we're talking about the need for miracle cures, Killian, what happened to you?"

"I – " He caught himself; he had been about to say _nothing._ "Just a minor wound trying to stop Nimue from getting to you, love. You don't need to fret. About that, at least."

"No?" Her hand cupped his face, their foreheads brushing, noses touching, as their other hands stayed linked, fingers still tangled, as if that small grasp alone could save them from everything that loomed over them like gathering stormclouds. "What. . . what happened to Zelena?"

"She's. . . alive. Not much more to be said for it, but she is. Your boy wants to save her."

"My kid. The hero." Emma's smile wavered painfully. "That's just who Henry is. But if we can, if there's a chance. . . I'd. . . I'd like that."

"Then we'll find a way." Killian took her hand to his mouth and kissed it, not able to meet her eyes just yet. "For that, and the rest of it."

Emma nodded wordlessly, then reached up, cupped his other cheek, and brought their mouths together, lightly at first and then more hungrily, as his fingers tangled in her greying hair. He didn't want to let go, didn't want to wake up if he was still asleep, didn't want to be anywhere else in the universe just now, or in all of the years he had lived, then right here in his own bed, kissing her, kissing Emma Swan, somehow and impossibly restored to him, and he would do anything to keep her. Last night, without her, he had been willing to countenance the idea of not bothering to find a cure, to just reach the end and go softly into the darkness, but with her back, he would go to any end and tear down any wall in his path to find something to make it right. He didn't even need a way to make her immortal again, although, selfishly, he wanted it, so they would never have to worry about not having enough time. Just a way to stop her from forgetting. Just a way to stop his poison. That was all.

After a long moment, they pulled away, as they heard footsteps on the stairs, someone calling them from below. Liam was here. It was time.

They took hands, and went down to face the wolves.


	28. Chapter 28

The living room at the front of the house had barely been touched (or for that matter, lived in) since David Lloyd George was Prime Minister and Spanish influenza was ravaging the world just as the war came to an end; Killian had bought this place in 1918 for £750, which, needless to say, equated to a tidy return on investment for him. It hadn't been cheap even back then, but he'd had nothing else to do with his money and supposed that losing his mind in a comfortably appointed private residence was preferable to a squalid lodging house or opium den. Which he had then proceeded to do with vigor, and hence the place still looked as if it was trapped in time: claw-footed chairs and chaise, phonograph, Persian rug, dusty framed portraits of eighteenth-century aristocrats galloping across the countryside in gay hunting parties, a tall grandfather clock that he had taken the winding mechanism out of years ago, and pink-striped wallpaper and fussy gilt scrollwork more suitable for the residence of a very wealthy and snobbish old lady. Will had tried several times to persuade him to sell it all at some antique market and then gut the place, make it over into something modern and for the love of God at least add a television, but Killian had stubbornly refused. He didn't want anything new, didn't want to change his hideaway, his retreat from the knowledge that time was still passing and passing, out of his hands and out of his memory. Wanted to close his eyes and hope it might somehow, even though he had not had one in almost two hundred years, just be a dream.

Therefore, the last thing he had ever imagined was to see half a dozen wolves, all but openly bristling and eyes yellow to show that they were on the brink of change if he so much as twitched in their direction, crammed onto his creaky old furniture and waiting for him and Emma with identical dubious expressions. Liam stood by the plastered-over fireplace, hair sticking up wildly and face freshly scuffed in a way that suggested he had had to resort to physical methods of ensuring their compliance. Will was next to him, engaged in a stare-down with the beautiful mid-forties brunette sitting on the closest side of the couch, whom Killian recognized as Anita Gish, the Beta of the London Pack. Whether she was continuing to carry out that role under Liam was unclear, but he must have been quite persuasive to get her to even consider entering this house, far less actually doing it. Feeling like a man walking into a gunpowder factory with a lit fuse, Killian moved forward slowly. "Thank you for coming."

The wolves glared at him. He ducked his head, knowing he deserved every bit of it, as Emma's hand tightened in his grasp. He squeezed lightly and let go, feeling as if he needed to stand on his own for this, and well aware that any apology would be hollow and trite. None of them had bolted off the couch to tear his throat out, at least, though they might well be restrained by the glowering presence of their Alpha far more than any tender sensibilities of forgiving and forgetting. Finally, it was Anita who spoke. "You can rest assured that we wouldn't be here if there was any other choice, but your brother has been. . . eloquent on the subject of the reasons for your past. It _is_ the past, isn't it?"

"Aye." Killian wanted to look away, but forced himself to meet her eyes. "I don't blame you, any of you, for not trusting me an inch and doubtless wondering if this is all some elaborate trap. I know what I've done, and for how long. Liam may have told you why, but it's still my fault. I made those choices of my own free will, and I'm the one who must face the consequences. And if he told you that, he must also have told you about the vampire who's the cause of all of this, and that we have to, we _have_ to, find a way to stop him before it's too late."

"He did." Anita eyed him coolly. "Robert Fitzmalcolm, alias Gold, who you didn't actually kill? No problem with finishing off all those wolves, but when it came to the man who you claim ruined your life, you couldn't get the job done?"

"Hey," Will said. "You said yourself that you know who he is, what he's capable of. If Killian didn't kill him, it bloody well wasn't for lack of trying."

Killian felt a brief stab of pain from his chest, as if to remind him just what that trying had cost him, and would still cost, unless they could find the antidote in time. It should be a while, hopefully, as he was an Old One with plenty of endurance, not to mention that earlier unpleasant staking incident, but once cedar wounds went bad, they went bad quickly. He was already starting to feel sluggish and drowsy, less attuned to the world than usual, and wondered if this was what it had been like for Emma. Had she lost her immortal abilities all at once in a great fell swoop, or drip by drip, slipping out of her hands like a fish jumping the line? He supposed he'd have to tell Liam about it as well, since his brother had been out when the excitement of his collapse had happened last night, but the thought of having to again confess to him that they might lose each other, especially when they were in the middle of trying to repair the extensive damage caused by the first time, wasn't something he could face right now. Liam had enough to manage besides, no need to worry him. As long as they did get that antidote, it wouldn't matter.

"Well," he said, to break the increasingly awkward silence. "Anyone else have questions?"

The wolves shifted, but didn't answer. Doubtless the sort of questions they had in mind were not ones they were going to ask in front of Liam, and a few of them were also glancing goadingly at Will, as if trying to figure out how _that_ had worked. The air remained thick with tension, until Liam caught sight of Emma and frowned. "You look. . . different. Did something happen?"

"Yes," Emma said quietly. "But it's not important just now."

"If you say so." Liam still looked concerned, but turned back to the group. "Since Gold's townhouse in Chelsea was burned, he will almost certainly have returned to his country estate in Essex. I, obviously, am familiar with the place, and I can get us in. I also know where he keeps his cabinet of potions and poisons, so I'll try to get my hands on the antidote. For the rest of it, whatever you're planning to neutralize him, that's up to you."

"Can't just rip the bastard a new one?" one of the wolves asked. "Or several?"

"That's not going to work," Killian said. "You can't physically dismember him. Believe me, it was the first thing I tried."

The wolf sneered. "Oh, and I'm trusting you, am I?"

"You bloody well should. I spent close to two centuries in search of any way to do him in, you can take it as bond if I say something's no good. If you ignore me just for spite, you'll get yourselves killed or at least seriously hurt, and I think we can agree that none of us want that."

"None of us except you." The biggest one got to his feet. "Admit it, wolf-killer."

Both Will and Liam snarled, springing defensively into half-change, eyes turning golden and furry ears laid flat, but Killian held up a hand. He didn't show his fangs, not wanting to escalate the situation, but nor did he back down, making it clear that if the bloke was going to pick a fight, he should at least think very hard about who he was picking it with. Nor was he about to be the casualty of some muscle-bound excess of testosterone trying to win points for his ego by confronting Killian when he could be fairly sure that he wouldn't fight back. Of course he wasn't blowing this to hell by getting involved in a pissing contest, when so many other things were of higher importance, but he bloody hated cowards.

After one more fraught moment, Anita rose to her feet. She crossed briskly to the offender, took hold of him by the collar, and slapped him across the face, hard enough to make him stagger. "Next time I'll do worse, if you think you're a big enough wolf to disobey the Alpha," she informed him. "Not to mention, being the exact kind of idiot who would try to provoke _him_ in the name of compensating for something that's apparently quite small. Sit down, shut up, and be grateful that you escaped with your stupidity this once. You too," she added, glancing at the other one who had been running his mouth off. "He'll probably kill us anyway, no need to expedite the process."

Killian winced. Yet the Jones brothers were always suckers for a take-charge woman, and he thought he could rather see why Liam was looking at her with something a bit more than mere appreciation for this show of support for his authority. Well, that was an interesting development. Alphas and Betas were often, though not always, mates; after all, it was easier to have the kind of trust that had to exist between pack leaders with someone who was already your intimate partner. But as far as he knew, it was quite rare that they became that way after a new Alpha got the job, unless they really were going for the whole medieval "conquer your castle and your queen" sort of hostile takeover. Still, though. Nothing about Liam's background was conventional, and if it made his brother happy, he'd be for it. As for Anita's disapproval of him, well, it was anyone's guess if he'd be around long enough for them to consider supernatural family counseling. If so, they'd cross that bridge when they reached it.

In the meantime, the chastised wolves were backing down, though with looks at Killian that said if they caught him alone, this would be a different story. Liam growled at them, evidently sensing the same thing, and made something of a show of turning around, as if to demonstrate his most recent collection of battle wounds and that he would be happy to amass a few more if they did something unwise. Once more, however, Killian shook his head at him. He didn't want it to look as if he needed the protection or was trying to use his brother to intimidate his way back into the wolves' good graces, and he didn't want to tie the political fortunes of Liam's new command to him. They loved each other and always would, but the fact remained that they were on very different sides of the supernatural world, physically and otherwise, and that Liam could not lead the London Pack while valuing the interests of his vampire little brother over theirs, especially when that vampire little brother was who he was. And considering that that had been Liam's highest priority for his entire life, unlearning it was going to be difficult and painful for both of them.

At that moment, the standoff was broken by the entrance of Henry, carrying an armload of heavy old books that looked like witan legal records – probably assembled in an effort to prove to the wolves that cross-species supernatural collaboration had almost as long a history as its conflict. (It was doubtful whether the academic paper trail would have done much good in this case, but it was a nice thought.) As Henry caught sight of Emma, however, he stared, then frowned. "What the – Mom, you're back! Are you all right?"

"Henry, I. . ." Emma swallowed. "It's complicated."

"You look – " Henry hesitated. "Older. Great, I mean. You look great, and I mean that in a completely non-Oedipal way, I swear. But still – "

Emma glanced at Killian, and he squeezed her hand. Then she said, "Henry, come on. I think we should talk in private."

As the two of them stepped out of the room, one of the wolves looked back at Killian with deepening suspicion, having evidently caught Henry's scent. "You have a son?"

"Aye," Killian said. "Only as of a few weeks ago. I turned him with my sister's help, at his request, to save his life. If you're worrying that I intend to train him as an heir to my blood-stained throne, you needn't. He's a scholar and teacher, a wonderful man, and I would never want him to be anything else."

There was a slight pause. Then Anita clapped her hands. "Very well, the attack on Gold's mansion in Essex. If you know so much about his strengths and weaknesses, surely you're coming with us?"

"If you'll trust me to do so, then yes." Hopefully he could stave off the effects of the cedar long enough to not be a liability. "But we'll also need Emma."

"That old human?" his previous would-be challenger scoffed. "Why on earth would we – "

At that, Killian did bare his fangs. "Insult me all you please, but if you carry on speaking disrespectfully of the lady Swan, I'm afraid it won't be pretty."

"I already _told_ you to shut up," Anita said to her unruly underling, sounding exasperated. "Jones, go on. What about her?"

"Thank you, madam. Emma is the _universus,_ the one thing Gold needs to complete his ritual of becoming all-powerful by whatever distasteful methods he has in mind. Hence, common sense would seem to dictate that we keep her as far away from him as possible. But she's also the only one who can weaken him enough to be killed. We can't use the scales a second time; she's already human, she doesn't have immortality to balance against his. I believe the backup plan was to try to force him into the cage that held Merlin all these centuries. If we can get Gold in there, he'll be powerless, and hopefully then vulnerable to any of the usual means of fangicide. And the only person who got into Merlin's cage, who's able to connect with his magic and move back and forth between the dimensions associated with him, is Emma."

"Fangicide." Will's mouth twitched. "I like it."

"Thanks, love." Killian turned back to Anita. "Well?"

She considered it. "I can see the sense in theory, but if Ms. Swan is human now, how is she supposed to do this? Gold would rip through her like tissue paper, and then we'd lose any chance we had."

"I don't think so," Killian said. "Aye, she's human, but I don't think she's powerless. To defeat Nimue, she had to take Nimue's spark into her, the source of vampiric existence and the original Book of the Dead. The thing that gives all of our – my," he amended, remembering that he was the only vampire in the room – "kind life. If she still has it, we still have a shot."

The wolves chewed over that (though doubtless they would have preferred to chew on him). "So essentially, our plan consists of smuggling a human in and making sure she doesn't get killed before she can force Gold into some kind of anti-magical holding cell, that there's no guarantee she can even still find or access? And this is the brilliant strategy we're staking the entire future of the supernatural world on? We're fucked."

"We're not fucked," Will said. "Not completely. All right, maybe three-quarters fucked, but that's still a quarter unfucked, and contrary to the cases where a thorough fucking would be preferable, any situation where we are not fucked more than zero is still worth fighting for. So you can bend over and stick your arses up, or you can kick 'em where it hurts. I know which one I'm doing."

As the troublemaker started to mumble that he was quite sure he knew which one it was too, Will turned around and casually rabbit-punched him in the nose, causing him to stagger backwards with a curse. Liam and Anita regarded this with suppressed amusement, and even the hard-to-crack Beta raised a begrudgingly admiring eyebrow. "Well, Scarlet, you certainly have a. . . picturesque way with words. As for the rest, I'm not sure if it's courage or suicide, but I suppose it's commendable."

"Thanks," Will said. "I'm not sure most of the time either. But I _am_ sure that the lot of you aren't goin' to let some Teeth-lovin' traitor be braver than you are. So I guess you're coming."

The wolves opened, then shut their mouths in unison. Killian bit a smile, not wanting to appear as if he was rubbing salt in the wound, but he shot Will a look of deep gratitude and affection. In a very real way, Will had been the one to – figuratively, at least, not literally such as Emma's current predicament – make him human again, the reason he had even started to try to claw his way out of the monster's black lair. He had never imagined loving a werewolf, but in the end, it was the only thing he could have done, the first painful steps to – well, wherever he bloody was now. Badly wounded and still not any safe wager to survive whatever other terrible thing was going to happen, but in the same room with half a dozen wolves of the London Pack with plans to work together. He felt almost light, away from the creeping effects of cedar intoxication still spreading insidiously through his veins. After so long festering, to have it out in the open, faced down, reckoned for, answered for, was downright liberating.

"So then," Liam said, in the tone of a manager who had been listening to his employees squabble at the board meeting and was now stepping in to throw down the gauntlet of executive privilege. "Glad that's been settled. But Killian, you didn't mention that that was what happened to Emma. Is she. . . are you going to be all right?"

"Fine." Killian forced a smile. "Briefly, though – in all you know about Gold and the _Liber_ and the weaknesses he was trying to overcome – would there be anything about not. . . about not forgetting?"

"About not forgetting what?"

"For someone forced out of the supernatural world against their will, who would otherwise be condemned to forget it. Is there any way to stop it?"

"I can't say." Liam shook his head. "To the best of my knowledge, it's unprecedented. People just aren't turned back into humans after being vampires or wolves; Emma is most likely the very first. Gold _might_ know something about it, but I doubt he'd stop to do us a favor in between the part where we were breaking into his house to kill him."

"Maybe we don't have to," Killian said. "Immediately, I mean. If he's trapped in the cage and doesn't have any power, he's not a threat. If he thought it might buy his life, he'd bargain. As I said, I know the bastard. He can never resist making a deal, especially not one to save his own neck."

"And then what? We'd release him in exchange for his help? Killian, you know we can't do that."

"Of course not. But he left _us_ alive all these centuries to suffer. Maybe he doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death. Leave him alive without magic, without any ability to do anything, to watch and rot for an eternity. Sounds fitting, aye?"

"Perhaps. But you wanting him to die slowly and painfully was what got you into trouble the last time. Did you consider that?"

"Liam, trust me, I want him dead as much as you do. But if there's a chance we can save Emma, if we can help her – if she doesn't have to forget us, to forget me – "

"No!" Liam bellowed, making the whole room jump. "No, you don't want him dead as much as I do! He ruined your life, yes, but he did far worse to me! Even now, I'm bloody terrified that I'll hear him in my head again, making me do something terrible, driving me out of whatever little of myself I've managed to gather up, turning me into the monster again! You can relate to that fear, little brother. I know you can. I'm sorry about Emma, truly. More than you will ever know. But you're not going to help her by keeping Gold alive, and you're not going to help me. You're grasping at straws. And there is no way I can even start to heal, to build anything new, until I know that he's dead and dust for good. Otherwise, I'll be looking over my shoulder for however much more of my life there is. I don't care if he's supposed to be powerless in the cage. Merlin got out of it. Gold could too. He knows everything. We could never be sure."

Killian stared at him, speechless. Along with making an alliance with the werewolves, he could never in his wildest and most demented dreams have imagined a situation where he was trying to talk someone – trying to talk _Liam,_ his idol and the man he once thought could do no wrong – out of killing Gold. But however much a part of him would always want the bugger to suffer, his love for Emma was stronger than his old compulsion to revenge, and if he could buy her life, or at least her memory, by sparing Gold, he was prepared to grit his fangs and do it. Yet Liam had no mitigating factor, no desire other than to see his slave-master taken down, the same way they had sworn in their boyhood that one day they would be free, and no man's property ever again. And if the question of Gold's life came down to a choice between Emma and Liam, Killian knew he couldn't do it. Couldn't lose one for the sake of the other; it would leave him half a soul, with half a heart, no matter which way it was. But he would have to. And that, far more surely than the cedar or the stake or all the wolves who would still happily tear him apart, would kill him.

"Brother," Killian began after a moment. "You can kill Gold, I swear, just as soon as – "

"The Alpha has made a decision," Anita interrupted. _"And_ your captain. You obey it."

"With respect, my lady. I am, quite self-evidently, not a werewolf, so his decisions in that capacity cannot bind me. As well. . ." Killian paused, heartsick. "He was my captain almost three hundred years ago, in another life, so far distant from both of us now as to barely seem real. We're not in the Navy anymore. Indeed, all we are now is brothers, no more and no less. Equals. Liam, listen to me. I know exactly how you feel, believe me. It's because of that I can promise that rushing in determined to destroy him no matter what, no matter the cost to anyone and everyone. . . it's not going to work. We need to deal with him, aye. But we can't lose you – and _you_ can't lose you – in the process. And if you try to kill him before I can at least ask what he knows about what's happened to Emma, I'm going to have to stop you."

Liam looked at him in shock. The wolves shifted forward on the edge of their seats, instinctively responding to the Alpha's dismay, ready to have his back in battle if need be. Will seemed briefly torn, but his eyes were on Killian, and there they could be trusted to stay. The tension remained at a painful pitch for a few moments longer, until Liam finally said, "He'd lie. Twist the truth somehow. Whatever you thought you were buying, and paying dearly for, you wouldn't get it. You're risking everything, Killian, just out of a vain hope you can fix the unfixable. I know how you've always been, driven by your heart, but this time you can't – "

"Aye, and it's more justified to follow _your_ heart?" Killian flared. "You're as invested in this as I am, only you're the one masking your personal motives as the calm and rational thing to do, the _only_ thing to do, when you won't bloody listen to me telling you that it's not! You stupid, stubborn arse, I'm trying to save you from repeating three hundred years of my mistakes in one catastrophic night, and you still won't hear a word I'm saying, because you think if it's just for a _woman,_ it couldn't possibly be worth it! That's what you thought with Milah, I wanted to get her away from Gold, but you wouldn't hear of that either! Now once again, you think I should just let go of Emma, I'll get over it! Haven't we been down this road before? Haven't we learned _anything?_ Christ, Liam. You're tearing my heart out. Don't do this."

The silence was thunderous as the Jones brothers stared each other down, neither of them blinking or moving or even seeming to breathe, werewolf Alpha and vampire Old One, the abyss of the centuries of damage done to them yawning open at their feet. Neither Will nor Anita nor any of the other wolves made a sound, recognizing that this was an arena in which their interference would not be welcomed – something that only Liam and Killian could fight through, but not with teeth and claws. Something far more dangerous, and powerful, and necessary.

"There's one other thing you should know," Killian said, when his brother didn't answer. "I caught part of the stake when Nimue tried to attack Emma, back at Arthur's. Zelena took the worst of it, but a splinter hit me as well. I'm slowly being poisoned by the cedar, and if we don't get more of that same antidote you gave me in New York, I'm likely going to die as well. If there's only one bottle left, either Zelena and I can bloody arm-wrestle for it, or we have to somehow get Gold to make a second dose. Unless that's something else that doesn't matter, because you just have to see him dead at your feet tonight?"

Liam flinched. "Killian, I – I didn't – "

"Of course you didn't know." He stared at the ceiling. "I haven't even told Emma. Will found out by accident, or I wouldn't have got round to mentioning it to him either. So answer me. I beg you, honestly. What's more important to you, your vengeance or my life? And like it or not, approve or otherwise, no matter what you or anyone could possibly say, that includes Emma."

"Killian." Liam ran a scarred hand through his curls, eyes gleaming suspiciously bright. "You know it's you. That will never change, no matter what anyone could do to us. Ever."

They stared at each other a moment longer, until Liam reached out for him. Killian took a step, then another, until he grasped hold, and let Liam pull him into a fierce embrace, both of them holding roughly, silently, until they let go and stepped back. "Very well," Liam said quietly. "We'll do it as you say, brother. I'm with you to the end, always. You know that, don't you?"

"Aye." Killian glanced down. "Well then. I suppose it's time to get ready."

* * *

Preparations were minimal. Killian went into the kitchen, where his larders were not in the least equipped to offer eight werewolves anything in the way of nourishment (it was doubtful if they would have accepted it anyway) and with a pang, he thought they would now have to include Emma alongside David and Mary Margaret in the human food-buying requirements. Emma herself and Henry were sitting at the table, having evidently concluded a painful conversation, and Henry glanced up with a wan attempt at a smile. "Well," he said. "As I was just telling Mom, at least we got to see what it would be like if she'd never been turned, what we'd both look like at our proper ages right now. As well, I'm guessing that neither of us saw the me-vampire, her-human switcheroo coming. So. . . irony?"

"Aye, lad. I suppose." Killian did his best at a matching smile, as much as it hurt, briefly squeezing Henry's shoulder. "How are you doing?"

"I'm trying to compartmentalize," Henry admitted. "There's too much left for us to get distracted. Also, I told her about. . . your little indisposition."

"Oh." Killian revolved on the spot, meeting Emma's gaze, which he felt like a punch to the back of the spine. "That."

"Yes. That." Emma's fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the tabletop. "You were planning to mention it, I'm sure?"

"Aye, just. . . later. I didn't want to worry you."

"I'm the one who had to tell you that I'm human again, that I'm going to forget the entire family before long, and everything else, and you're afraid you'll worry me?" Emma laughed, without any humor. "At the rate we're going, it probably won't even crack the top ten list. I just. . . I wish you'd have trusted me with it."

"And you were the one hoping I wouldn't wake up when you came in earlier." He held her gaze levelly. "So neither of us are very good at revealing our weaknesses, are we?"

"No." Her voice was half a whisper. "I guess not."

"Anyway," Killian declared, with far more confidence than he felt. "We'll just nick the antidote, and that will solve it. I'm more concerned about you, love. Your problem doesn't appear to have an immediately obvious solution, but I've. . . come to an understanding with Liam about what we'll try to fix it. One question, though. Do you have the spark?"

"The spark?" Emma was confused. "The one I took out of Nimue? I – I don't know. There hasn't been a sudden mass vampire extinction, so I'd imagine the magic of the Book of the Dead is intact. But I don't know if it's with me."

"You're the _universus._ It has to be in you. If so, that means we have a chance." In a few words, Killian filled her in on the plan to get Gold into Merlin's cage, then use his old stake for its intended purpose – at, of course, the proper moment. Even though he felt a stab of guilt reminding him that he was doing exactly what they had just called each other out for, he didn't mention the side aim of interrogating Gold about a possible cure for her. He didn't want to get her hopes up if there was no reason for it, if Liam was right and the bastard would just lie and trick his way out of it, or any of the other hundred reasons that trusting one's mortal enemy to assist with one's tangled love life, after said mortal enemy had been responsible for first putting it in that state some several hundred years ago, could go absurdly wrong. Maybe Liam was right, and he was just deluding himself with impossible hopes of what was good and truly gone forever. But of all the terrible things he'd done, and wrestled with the thought of ever excusing or overcoming in himself, not trying would be the worst.

"Well," Emma said, when he finished. "It sounds like the best plan we have. But how can we be sure that I still have the Book of the Dead? If it just, I don't know, fell off the back of the turnip cart somewhere in Wales, we're screwed."

"As you said, love. There are still vampires, so it must be somewhere." Killian turned toward her, gaze intent on her face. "Do you trust me?"

Emma bit her lip. "Of course I do. I just. . . wish there was something a little more tangible to prove that taking this risk isn't going to kill all of us outright."

"It's riskier if we don't." Killian touched her cheek. "We'll do it together."

Emma paused, then nodded, leaning forward to brush their foreheads. After a moment, she shifted angle to kiss him, his hand coming up to bunch in her hair, as they turned their heads and closed their eyes. Then he was startled to hear a sudden, surprised gasp from her as she pulled back, touching her mouth in confusion. "I – I think I must have it after all. I felt something, just now. Like it was burning."

"So, then." He offered her an arm to her feet. "We have a chance."

* * *

The next and final problem was how they were going to get to Essex. A group of werewolves and vampires traveling together would attract unwelcome attention, Gold would have an alert system in place for any incoming supernatural visitors, and while Will offered to drive them in his car, it was obviously not the most inconspicuous vehicle in the world and nobody was willing to pack all of their party into its approximately four seats like clowns in the circus. There was a commuter rail line that would take them most of the way, but they would have to hurry if they wanted to catch the last service for the night, and nobody wanted to be stuck on the night bus. Yet this was the best of an underwhelming slate of options, which was how Killian found himself in a grotty train carriage, looking up at an advert for some new herbal supplement, jouncing along the tracks with the distant lights of Greater London passing outside the windows, with Emma and Henry on one side, Will on the other, and a lot of dubious wolves across the aisle. Liam and Anita were sitting together, conversing in low voices, heads bent close enough that the rest of the pack couldn't help but steal glances at them. As the only other occupants of the car were a businessman who hadn't looked up from his smartphone the entire time, and a teenager wearing large lime-green Bose headphones, they did not appear to be in any imminent danger of having their cover blown, but Killian was still on edge. He had done his best to prevent Henry from coming along, not wanting to put any more people in the line of fire and especially not when the collaboration was so tenuous as it was, but as before, Henry wouldn't hear of it. And so, leaving Regina and the Nolans to hold down the home front, here they were.

Half an hour later, they were debarking, emerging into the cold spring night and falling into step behind Liam as he led them away from the main road and into a narrower, darker country lane. Difficult as it was, they were resisting any usage or display of supernatural ability: no changing for the wolves, no enhanced speed for the vampires, so they could conceivably pass (if you stepped back and squinted very hard) as a group of regular humans, friends out for the night, and thus avoid setting off Gold's sentries. According to Liam, English Heritage had tried several times to officially list his historic country mansion as a property of cultural value and thus impose government standards for its upkeep, but quietly given up after one too many of the agents it sent never returned. What exactly had happened to them, it was better not to know.

An owl hooted as they reached the end of the lane, walled in by thorn bushes to either side, and giving Killian the brief and unsettling impression that he was a prince in a fairytale, venturing toward the castle where everyone had been asleep for a hundred years in hopes of waking the princess with a kiss. But his princess was walking close alongside him, hand held tightly in his own, looking pale but resolute. Away across the lawn, the dark bulk of the house presided over the immaculately kept grounds. No lights were visible in its windows, its creneled turrets biting menacingly into the night sky; indeed, if someone had been on a pleasant lark through the neighborhood to identify where the local vampire lived, this would have been exactly the property that they would select. Nobody could accuse Gold of false advertising, at least. It looked like something out of a Gothic novel, spectral and unwelcoming, as Liam did something to the gate, lifted it off its hinges, and beckoned them through, onto the grass. He paused to consider, then veered left, toward the thick trees at the rear of the house, and they followed him. _Gold leave the back door unlocked, did he?_

They climbed onto the porch, like teenagers daring each other to break in, as Killian wondered if Gold was even home. He was certainly more than old enough to have an aversion to changing territory, especially as much a creature of habit as he was, and with the action happening in London, it wasn't likely that he would have gone all the way up to his hunting lodge in Scotland. The wolves were clearly on edge, smelling the Teeth all over this place, their instincts telling them to get out now, as Liam worked the latch, tension evident in his posture. He must have spent quite a lot of time as a prisoner here, away from the city where Killian was killing the other ones, and Killian himself felt another crippling burn of guilt in his stomach. Or perhaps that was from his chest; the cedar wound had been throbbing steadily since they left his house, and he was starting to lose sensation in his extremities. If any of this came to a fight, the most he could do was hope not to die in the middle of it.

After another moment, the latch clicked, and the wolves and Emma stepped carefully across the threshold; they, of course, didn't need invitations. Indeed Killian and Henry, as the only vampires present, had to wait until Liam turned around and asked them to come in, and Killian felt a prickle of revulsion at being on the wrong side of the door with Emma in Gold's lair, even for a moment. Once within, he hastened to take her hand again, and in the most British of traditions, they formed an orderly queue to proceed down the hall, which was dim and narrow and smelled strange. Vampire residences tended to have a metallic-coppery whiff about them, though it of course was not considered proper to have it smell like a trauma ward in the hospital, but this was different. Sharper, darker, ominous. Warning.

A dim light was visible ahead, paving a faint track on the worn carpet and spilling out from under the door of what looked like a study. Everyone's hackles went up – especially when the door unclicked and swung open on its own accord. A voice said, "Well, do come in. It's ill-mannered for the lot of you to lurk in the hall and snoop, especially after you made yourselves quite at home. Have the Tails never heard of a doorbell?"

Realizing that any hope of secrecy was, so to speak, out with the bathwater, the expeditionary party grimaced, braced themselves, and walked slowly to the brink, the sulfurous, hellish yellow light lapping out. It had an unpleasant, disorienting quality, the visual equivalent of a swarm of bees buzzing at them, darting and stinging, as they held up their hands against it, unsure whether to rush inside and assault him on the spot, or to turn and get the bleeding Jesus out of there (or perhaps that was only Killian). Then, knowing this was only about to get worse, they put on their best appearance of nonchalant confidence and stepped inside.

"Wait there." Gold was on his hands and knees on the far side of the room, drawing something on the floor in greasy black chalk. "I'll need you in just a moment. Miss Swan, good evening, so kind of you to bring the Book. Mr. Jones, glad I can always count on you to bring wolves into a situation where they're sure to die horribly. Oh, except for you, 'Alpha.' I'm sure your little vacation has been amusing, but it's time to get back to work."

The wolves swiveled as one to stare at Killian, as if all their worst suspicions had just been confirmed. He felt as if the floor was turning out from underneath him (or again, perhaps that was the poison) as he moved to stand between the pack and Gold. "Not this bloody time."

"Really?" Straightening up, Gold smirked. "It doesn't look that way to me. I only need the _universus_ and my slave. You and your son are in my bloodline of descent, so you both have to die, and frankly, nobody needs the wolves, so we'll be tidy and get rid of them. Please don't tell me you're going to cast yourself as their heroic protector. I might rupture something laughing."

"Let's get out of here." Emma's hand tightened around Killian's wrist. "This wasn't a good idea, he was waiting for us, he – "

"I don't think so." Gold made a languid gesture, and the door slammed and locked behind them. "Tonight has been too long in the making to allow anyone to foul it up. I congratulate you on your disposal of Nimue, Miss Swan, as that was the only wild card in whether or not my plan would go ahead. And there's also this." He held up a small glass vial. "One dose of antidote for cedar poisoning. Be a shame if I dropped it."

Will made a convulsive movement, as if he had been about to fling himself at Gold's throat and grab it, a course of action which obviously could not backfire in any spectacularly terrible fashion. With an amused look at him, as if he knew exactly what he had been thinking, Gold tucked it into his breast pocket and turned back to the table, where he had laid out an array of instruments for the evening's festivities. There were black knives, leaded-glass alembics linked with webs of piping, a silver chalice, a wand, a bell, and an old book lying open in manuscript leaves – clearly the original _Liber incarcerati,_ which he had taken advantage of Merlin's death to retrieve from Columbia. So this was it, then. Tonight was supposed to be when he finally performed the ritual to become all-powerful, now that he had Emma where he wanted her. The floor was covered in an extensive pentacle, chalked in tangles of arcane spellwork, surrounded by racks of candles like waxen gremlins. At another gesture from Gold, they lit themselves with a whoosh, at the same time the yellow light went out, leaving only the witchy glow of the burning tapers. Something huge and dark seemed to pass over the room, the Angel of Death coming to visit Egypt and in search of which households had painted lambs' blood on the door, but this force would not be repelled by blood. Came, instead, in search of it.

At a third gesture, the six wolves of the pack, Will, and Anita were bodily propelled into the pentacle, glowing red runes locking around their wrists like chains, as Killian and Liam yelled and dove after them. The repelling force of the hostile magic was like a brick to the chest, but they both fought through it, clawing away the humming strands long enough for the wolves, who had clearly (and with good reason) decided that the whole non-supernatural policy was biting them directly in the not-yet-lycanthroped behind, to shift. Eight sets of paws hit the ground as the pentacle flared and sputtered erratically, trying to readjust to capture them as wolves instead of humans, and caught half of them, including the one who had been challenging Killian earlier. The other half, including Will and Anita, leapt out the side, snarling.

For a brief, horrible moment, Killian had to fight the overwhelming urge to just let the magic do its work, to vaporize the bastards, and without him even being implicated in any way for it. Pass it off as removing a potential trouble spot for Liam. He could smell burning flesh, didn't imagine it would be at all pleasant to be caught in the middle of that blazing nexus – but he was dying anyway, and he had nothing left to lose, and they already thought he had led them here in order for this exact thing to happen. Damned if he was going to let them be right. _Damned._

He gathered his haunches under him, and jumped.

The fiery pentacle hit him twice as hard this time, roaring and swirling as he landed, feet nearly skidding out, as he was vaguely aware of Emma, Henry, Will, and Liam all yelling at him from some remote distance. He could feel the runes charring into him, wanting very much to set his flammable three-hundred-year-old corpse alight, as he battled through the greedy mouth of the inferno, reached the trapped wolves, and threw something he had never even known he had into the effort, like lifting a fallen beam. The world reeled maddeningly, blurry and unbalanced, and then something snapped, he stumbled forward, and the wolves scrambled away, rather singed around the edges but otherwise all right. Then someone grabbed one of Killian's arms, someone else grabbed the other, and they hauled him out of the smoking pentacle. He sprawled on the floorboards, gasping.

"Well," Gold's voice said, somewhere overhead. "That was quite a spectacle. It'll make it all the more heart-rending when they actually die in five minutes after all that wasted effort, but still. Impressive. Do you feel an epiphany coming on?"

Killian gritted his teeth, reminding himself that they could not kill the arse, not yet, as he rolled over painfully and allowed Henry and Liam to help him upright. Will, still in wolf form, was guarding Emma, while the rest of the pack was trying to get at Gold, but were repelled by some invisible protective spell he had cast around his workstation. With a disappointed look at them, as if he had really been hoping for more impressive nemeses, he stepped behind the table, flipped open _Liber incarcerati_ to a new page, and started to read.

It was difficult even for Killian, who had an ear for languages, to tell what it was, as it didn't sound similar to anything he had ever heard. The candles whooshed and guttered, that dark Something rearing its head again, as the entire room felt frozen. Then Emma stepped away from Will, reached up to her chest, and closed her eyes, concentrating intensely, as fire bloomed against her fingers. The next instant, she was holding a fist-sized ball of flame – clearly the spark that she had taken from Nimue, the Book of the Dead, and Killian briefly feared she meant to hand it over to Gold. But instead she did something, a swift, clumsy motion, and the spark flared, broadened, and abruptly grew larger, morphing from a fireball into a roll of very old papyrus scrolls. She held them up like a shield, their browned edges fluttering wildly in the magical wind, but couldn't do much else with them. Merlin's original work, the grimoire that Nimue had corrupted to create vampires in the first place –

And at that, Killian had an idea. A stupid one, true, but they were rather past the point where smart ideas had any relevance to their future conduct. Groaning at the effort, he threw himself toward her, pushed her out of the way as another of Gold's blasts scoured overhead, and yelled, "Give that to me, love! Then hold on!"

Emma stared at him, at the incomprehensible, faded hieroglyphs, then back at him. "Can you _read_ this?"

"Only one way to find out!" He had, after all, had a few centuries to learn, and knowing of Gold's interest in the Book of the Dead and that _Liber incarcerati_ was supposed to modify and improve it, he had spent several of those years on New Kingdom Egyptian hieroglyphic and hieratic scripts. He pulled the scroll open, praying that Merlin had had good handwriting; it would be a terrible shame if the world was destroyed only because he was scrawling in a hurry and hadn't bothered to make it legible. But as his eyes ran over the page, he realized with a lurch that he could understand it, and reached out to take Emma's hand. With that, he began to read.

For a terrible moment, nothing happened. Then the counter-spell flashed out, crashing into Gold's, the competing magical shockwaves grinding and sparking in midair. Emma stood with her other hand outstretched, the power flowing through both of them in an unbroken circuit; Killian read it, Emma wielded it. Gold raised his voice, reading louder; Killian followed suit, the _Liber_ and the Book of the Dead smoking around the edges from the force shuddering through them. Killian cast his eyes down the page, could see annotations and additions made in another, elegant hand that must be Nimue's. At first they were illegible, but then that hint of her still in him resurfaced, recognizing itself, and he saw the formula for summoning the cage, Merlin's prison for millennia. A place that existed in a relativity similar to that at the very brink of a black hole, where time simply did not pass, freezing someone in one single moment that could stretch on forever and ever, infinitely past the heat death of the universe. There. Now. Their only chance.

Killian read faster, desperately, trying not to trip over the complicated chains of clauses, even as he became aware of a terrible, burning pain in his chest; he was using so much strength to control and direct the flow of the Book's power into Emma that he had nothing at all left to fight the cedar poisoning. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the faint outlines of the cage starting to take form, the wolves still throwing themselves against the invisible barrier in hopes of weakening or distracting Gold enough for him to make it to the end. It was holding, but not as firmly, and just as Killian pronounced the final syllable, two things happened. The first was that the cage flickered into existence, standing open and waiting just a few yards from Gold's work station, waiting to take him prisoner. The second was that Will and Liam bashed headfirst through the remnants of the magical barrier, sprang, and knocked him flat.

The vial of antidote rolled out of Gold's jacket with a clatter, and Anita shifted back into human form so she'd have the use of fingers, dove after it, and caught it. Henry went for the _Liber,_ snatching up the pages and shuffling them back together; he must be equally horrified that a valuable old book was being misused like this, as much as his disapproval of Gold's megalomaniacal ultimate-power-grab attempt. Not to mention that Gold had stolen it from his alma mater's special collections library, which must be adding insult to injury.

Gold struggled furiously as Will and Liam dragged him across the floor toward the cage, one wing-tipped shoe flashing in the candlelight. Ordinarily, he might have been strong enough to get away, but he had also been considerably weakened by the amount of power he had just expended in the literary duel with Killian, and two very angry werewolves, one of them an Alpha, were more than matching him. At least, this was as far as Killian could tell, as he was in the process of going, seemingly very slowly, to his knees. Burning red-black oblivion reached for him, one from which, if he went under, he would not surface. The poisoning was almost complete.

"The antidote!" Emma yelled frantically, wrapping her arms around him and trying to hold him upright. "Anita, give me the antidote!"

The Beta hesitated, clearly fighting against her own old instincts with all her might, looking between the vial in her hand, Killian, Liam, and Gold almost to the cage. It must go against every grain of her to do this – but she had seen Killian save the wolves earlier, and if nothing else, it was plain by now that she was on Liam's side. Without a word, she threw it.

Emma caught it, pushing it at Killian with trembling hands. "Take it. Quickly. Take it."

He hesitated. It would be so easy. But he also knew that there was only one dose, and no chance, even if they did miraculously get Gold to start spilling trade secrets, that a second one could be made in time to save both him and Zelena. And she was dying because of his stake, because of trying to save Emma, and Emma wanted to do the same for her. _You're not the heroic-sacrifice type,_ Nimue had said. Aye, likely that was true; a hero would have done this better. Would never be in the situation to start with. But he could not do it this way, and there was still one other chance. One small, ludicrous, heart-wrenching chance, and that would have to be enough.

"Killian?" Sensing something amiss, Emma stared at him fearfully. "Killian, drink it! Hurry!"

"I. . ." He struggled for the words, against the darkness eagerly lapping at his feet, like the tide coming in on a great black sea. There were none, so instead he ducked his head and kissed her, as fiercely and as deeply and as desperately as he possibly could, her hands coming up to clutch at him and both of them breathing the other's very essence, human and vampire, mortal and immortal all at once, something greater and wilder and stronger than either of them as the mere sum of their parts. Then he closed her hand around the vial, and stepped back.

"What are you – ?" Emma took a step. "What are you – "

"You deserve. . . to have. . . a mother." Words were even more difficult now, thick and clumsy. "And I can't live. . . with one more death. . . on my conscience. Give it – give it to Zelena. See if she meant. . . what she said. About you. Being a family."

"Killian, what are you – please don't – "

He managed a faint grin, even as his heart felt as if it was shattering. Begging, willing to make her understand. "In the cage. Time doesn't pass, remember? So the poisoning can't get any worse, so as long as I'm still alive when I go in, I'll stay that way. Then you can find what you need to do. For me, if you want, but. . . do it. . . for you. How not. . . to forget. Whatever else. This way. . . I'll have. . . all the time. . . you need."

With that, not trusting himself to carry it through if he kissed her again, even though he wanted nothing else with every fiber of his being, with every strand and sinew of his soul, he started to run, with the very last of his strength. Reached Gold, grabbed hold of him, and threw the two of them headlong, entangled, toward the open door of the cage.

Something buffeted him, twisting him sidelong, as he departed the normal constraints of reality, the usual procession of time and space, and fell into the stillness, the unmoving singularity, the stretching-out of existence until it came to a complete halt. Heard the door slam above them, locking them in, but he could still see Emma, and Liam, and Will, and Henry. Even Anita, and the wolves. All of them, staring back at him.

There was no pain anymore. He felt almost light.

"I love you,"he shouted back at his family. _"I love you."_

The bars of the cage shivered and rippled. Gold threw himself against them, to no effect; they were soundly imprisoned, perhaps destined to spend another few thousand years locked up with each other, as there was no guarantee that they could ever get it open again. The spell that had conjured it here was fading; they were being pulled out of ordinary dimensions, and back into the void. Still Killian looked back, gaze fixed on Emma's as long as he humanely or inhumanely could, burning her into his mind, into every atom of him, even as the unmaking rushed toward him, the cessation. Whispered the words, the last thing she had said to him, one more time.

_I love you._

Then the world was gone.


	29. Chapter 29

It was getting light, away over the cluttered industrial docklands east along the river, by the time they returned to the city, which was almost quiet except for the earliest commuters and latest partiers. Emma, Henry, Will, and Liam were too stunned to say much, and even the wolves had no sardonic comments to offer, not after what had happened, what they had seen their former mortal enemy do. They had scoured the mansion from foundation to attic, looking for some kind of user's manual, cheat code, convenient magical MacGuffin, doorway that might open into an alternate dimension, second dose of antidote, or anything else that might help them summon the cage back and find a way to free Killian without either a) him immediately dying of cedar poisoning or b) unloosing Gold as well to just pick up right where he had left off. They had been comprehensively thwarted in any and all of these attempts. Liam found Gold's potion cabinet, but it had been emptied. There were plenty of evil-looking sorcerous accessories that they decided it was better not to touch, as clearly this was not a problem they could solve by blindly grabbing things, waving them, and shouting abracadabra. But nowhere was it even hinted what their next step should be. Nobody could read the present copy of _Liber incarcerati,_ since it was written half in Latin and half in Gold's personal cipher; even Liam and Henry together could only make out one word in four. There was still the Book of the Dead, but likewise, Killian had been the only one fluent in hieroglyphs. The only people who could read these books, and thus hopefully tell them how to get the cage back, save Killian, and keep Gold trapped, were Killian and Gold themselves, and that was just no damn good at all.

Thus, morale was decidedly low as they stepped out into Liverpool Street station, pushed through the turnstiles (one of the wolves had lost his ticket, and just snarled at the barrier, which was actually intimidated into opening) and shuffled into the Underground, caught the Central line to Holborn, and just walked the few minutes from there to Russell Square. It was definitely sunrise by now, but Henry, the only vampire among their number, didn't seem to notice. Any other fledgling should have been taking an extended nap on the pavement, but it was already plain that he was not your average fledgling. As for the wolves, while relations were not quite so repaired that they were ready to come in and have a cozy cup of tea in Killian Jones' kitchen, they could at least understand that Liam would have to deal with this. "Go with your family," Anita said, low-voiced. "I'll keep an eye on the pack."

Liam paused, then nodded, leaned forward, and kissed her quickly on the cheek, before turning about and striding up the steps, the other three trailing along behind. Once they were inside, they discovered Regina, David, and Mary Margaret waiting tensely for news, none of them having slept a wink, and had to admit that it was both very good and very bad. On one hand, Gold was not likely to be causing trouble for the immediate future. On the other, well. . .

"Killian's last wish was for us to use the antidote to save Zelena," Emma said, trying to sound as cool and matter-of-fact as she could, but her voice wavered. "Where is she?"

Regina hesitated for a long moment, looking down at her hands clenched on her own knees. Finally she said, "There's a supernatural infirmary ward just over on Great Ormond Street. Probably there."

"We'll go right away," Emma said. "Henry and I, that is. I thought. . . you should come with us."

Regina flinched, but didn't demur. She had no immediate biting response at the thought of accompanying a delegation to save her sister; indeed she had been very subdued since hearing what Killian had done. Despite the centuries' worth of troubled relations between the vampire siblings, it was more and more evident that at heart, they still cared deeply for each other and were inextricably entwined with the other's slow, stumbling path both into and out of the darkness, no matter how much they tried to pretend otherwise. Instead she said, "Are you sure about this, Emma? You're not a vampire any more, you're technically not Zelena's daughter. If you give her the antidote, and she doesn't want anything to do with you. . . are you going to feel like honoring Killian's sacrifice was worth it? You could still save it and use it to cure him if. . . _when_ you find the cage again. You don't have to be a stupid noble idiot just because he was."

"Yes," Emma said steadily. "I do. As for Zelena rejecting me. . . she could, I suppose. But I don't think so. And if it _is_ the case that I'm never going to see Killian again – which I don't accept, by the way – then I'm not living whatever time I have, before I forget, knowing I didn't do what he asked me to. And I don't think you really want that either."

Regina was out of excuses. She hesitated a final moment, then got brusquely to her feet. "Fine. You'll need me along to protect you if Zelena _does_ decide to hop back on the crazy broom. Now that you're a mortal, it might not be a bad idea to invest in some Krav Maga lessons."

Emma smiled wanly, picking up her coat. Without the benefit of supernatural endurance, and after the bruiser of the last few days, she was feeling as if sleep was sorely needed but still far distant. "Thank you, Regina."

Regina huffed and looked away, but buttoned up her stylish trench and waited as Henry likewise pulled his jacket back on. Making sure the antidote was still safely in Emma's pocket, the three of them headed down the steps into the chilly, quiet spring morning and across the square; it was only a quick walk to Great Ormond Street. The entrance to the supernatural hospital was a discreet cast-iron arch just around the corner from the regular one, and they signed in as Emma looked around in avid curiosity. It looked like your average medical center, albeit with slightly antique décor to make its several-hundred-year-old patients feel at home; there were wards for silver injuries, excessive-mesmer mental issues, a poison-control center for hypochondriac vampires who thought they had been exposed to garlic or salt or holy water (it didn't really do much as an active deterrent anymore, but there were plenty of urban legends about it), a large blood bank, a drunk tank where unruly werewolves were deposited to sober up from bar brawls, and doctors, nurses, and assistants in surgical scrubs as usual, even if a few of them also had fangs and/or tails. As she looked at the plaque for the psychiatry department, Emma wondered if they had something to help her – seeing as memory loss was one of the chief side effects of too much or misused mesmer, surely they had some kind of pill or prescription or whatever. But since all their remedies were calculated for supernaturals, there was no guarantee that they would work on a human. She wondered if this was how people with terminal diseases felt; knowing you were definitely going to die (or in her case, forget) before much longer engendered a peculiar blend of fearlessness and desperation. Losing Killian, on top of her already-pronounced sentence of amnesia, really just felt like insult on injury.

"Mom?" Henry touched her arm. "Are you okay?"

Emma shook herself. "Yeah. I guess. Come on, then. Let's do this."

They took the lift up to the intensive-care unit, where Zelena had been put into isolation; they had to sanitize their hands and put on masks before they could be admitted into her room. Emma had a sudden memory of visiting Neal in the hospital after the car accident – well, Neal's body, he had been DOA. Left Henry with the neighbor, gone out at four AM to make the positive identification, sign the death certificate, collect his possessions from the plastic tub – his wallet and keys and that stupid Carlton Fisk mini-bobblehead he kept on his dashboard, somehow completely untouched despite the fact that the car had been totaled. Asked and been allowed a few minutes to say goodbye; covered with a sheet, only his face visible, Neal looked almost peaceful. She wished then, with all her heart, that their last words hadn't been an argument about the divorce. That he hadn't stormed out and been T-boned by some drunk college kid at a red light on Commonwealth Avenue. That was different from wanting him alive, wanting him back, as she had already known that the best thing for her, for both of them, was to let go. But this still seemed so unfair, so pointless. Still wanting, somehow, the universe to make sense. To be kind.

She'd stood there for a long moment, looking at him, trying to think of something to say, wondering if his spirit was still close enough to hear. Nothing came to mind. Then she had leaned down, kissed his forehead, and pulled the sheet up. Somehow found the strength – or perhaps it had been there all along – turned, and walked away.

Now, Emma knuckled at her eyes as they stepped in, looking at Zelena seeming rather small and insignificant among the white sheets and sterile machinery. A nurse was checking her vitals, which were rather different for a vampire than for a human; you couldn't exactly keep track of breathing and heart rate. But upon seeing them, she glanced up. "Are you Ms. Mills' family?"

That hit Emma in an odd, vulnerable spot. "I. . . yes, we are. Can we have a minute, please?"

The nurse paused, then nodded. She marked something on the chart, then withdrew, leaving the three of them awkwardly congregated around the bed. Emma's hands were shaking, so she clenched them, then reached into her pocket and removed the vial of antidote, forcing away a horrible last-minute suspicion that it was actually poison, and Gold had tricked them all in hopes of getting Killian to drink it. But then, seeing as he was already poisoned, that wouldn't have done much good, and it did look the same, as far as she could tell on rough inspection, as whatever Liam had given Killian back in New York. She thumbed the cap open, slid a hand beneath Zelena's tumbled ginger curls, and lifted her head, bringing the vial to her lips.

Regina and Henry watched tensely as Emma managed to get most of the antidote into Zelena. She hoped a doctor wouldn't abruptly enter and think they were trying to finish off one of the patients on the sly, or administering some unauthorized drug; if this _had_ been some low trick of Gold's, there might not be anything that even supernatural medicine could do. Zelena's pale skin was heavily streaked with black veins of corruption, the stake wound in her chest packed and padded with gauze, her eyelids almost translucent, and as Emma tipped the last drops into her mouth, nothing visibly changed. The monitors continued to beep steadily. Silence.

Then, all at once, the black streaks started to fade, replaced with a healthy porcelain glow. The gauze began to smoke and singe, curling and twisting, until Emma peeled up an edge and saw only a thick pink scab where the ugly entrance wound had been. Zelena's chest heaved, drawing an instinctive breath, and her eyes fluttered, a slit of luminous green showing beneath her lashes. Her hand came up, groping, trailing a cluster of IV tubing. "Em. . . Emma?"

"Hi." Emma allowed Zelena's weak fingers to interlace with her own. "You'll want to take it easy. You've had a rough few days."

"What. . ." Zelena's eyes opened further, as she discovered that she was in a hospital bed with her estranged sister and her freshly vampired grandson standing and goggling at her from the foot of it. "Were you. . . all about. . . to dissect my cadaver for science?"

"Actually, no. We were. . . we were helping you get better. Thank you. For what you did. Throwing yourself between me and Nimue like that."

Zelena looked as if she wanted to say something, but words were clearly too painful, so she smiled feebly. After a moment she managed, "What else. . . was I supposed to do? You _are_. . . my daughter."

"Actually," Emma said again, sensing Regina and Henry shift their weight in case they needed to suddenly interfere. "Just so you know, technically. . . I'm not. I stopped Nimue, but using the scales. . . it took away my immortality. I'm a human now. And if what she said is true, I'm going to forget. Everything. This world, all of you. I don't know if I can stop it or not. And I. . ." She hesitated, feeling her voice about to break. "Thought you deserved to know. Why you were saved, that is. Killian insisted that the sole dose of antidote be yours, and voluntarily imprisoned himself in Merlin's old cage with Gold. I don't know if we'll ever get him out or see him again, or even be able to save him if we did. We've paid a terrible price for your life. I hope it's the right thing to do." Despite her best efforts, the tears were flowing freely, her shoulders shaking. "Please don't make me have lost him for nothing. _Please."_

Zelena looked stunned, and then her own eyes filled with tears. Without a word, she reached up, put her hand in Emma's tangled hair, and pulled her head down to rest on her shoulder. Emma did not resist, so bone-tired of being strong and so utterly hollowed and desolate inside; it was too much to pay, too much. She wept, letting Zelena stroke her hair, feeling Henry move to put a hand on her back, and even Regina took an uncomfortable few steps toward her side. Other than that, an almost trancelike silence reigned over the hospital room. Emma did not want to get up, to go on, to open her eyes, to stand up or remember her name, to surface among the endless, trackless seas, to do anything except let go, and drift. Let the current take her, the deep. Wash up on some far shore, somewhere strange and new. To begin again, somewhere beneath an endless sky. If it was her lot to forget, she just wanted it over. Couldn't stand this, and breathe.

At last, Emma shakily pulled herself together, biting down the sobs that still wanted to come out of somewhere very raw, some unutterable abyss of love and loss. The parents she had never known, dying to save her. Neal, lying on that hospital bed, already gone before they could ever make it right. The way Henry's face had looked as he got into the car with the Nolans, his new parents, and she had sat in the Bug in the parking lot of the adoption agency, crying until she was sick. All the years as a vampire, alone. Looking back at Killian, _I love you,_ as she vanished; Killian looking back at her as he did the same. _I love you._ It didn't seem to matter much, in the end. Didn't seem to count for anything but the deepest and most terrible of damages.

Henry offered her a tissue, and she wiped her ruined makeup away, sniffling. Zelena was still holding her hand, and seemed to be about to attempt sitting up. Regina silently rearranged her pillows, and the Mills sisters exchanged a startled look; it must have been the most cordial they had been in as long as either of them could remember. Indeed, now that the antidote had taken full effect, Zelena pulled out her various tubes and injectors and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I don't want to go prancing about in a hospital gown. Has anyone got my clothes?"

"I imagine they were ruined by the staking," Regina said, her own voice sounding rusty. "You're a witch, can't you just conjure up some new ones?"

"Maybe ordinarily, but I am feeling a _tad_ short on magic just this moment. Besides, why would you make your own clothes like a peasant when it's so much more fun to buy them?" Zelena looked miffed. "I really don't fancy loo-paper chic, so – "

"I'll run to Primark for you," Henry said. "What size do you wear, Grandma?"

" _Grandma?"_ Zelena blinked in astonishment. "That makes me sound so. . . geriatric."

"Well, it's what you are," Henry pointed out. "Though I suppose you're also my aunt twice over, because Regina and Killian are my blood parents, and you're their sister. I could call you that if you prefer, seeing as I have to accept that my family tree is really, really fucked up."

Zelena still looked rather ruffled at the "Grandma" business – but also, however much she tried to hide it, pleased. "Aunt will work," she said, almost shyly. "I wear a small to medium. Please, for the love of Bram Stoker, do not buy anything _polyester."_

Henry, biting a smile, promised that he would not, and departed. Shortly thereafter, the nurse returned, was flabbergasted to find that her patient previously at death's door had made a full recovery in the span of ten minutes, and insisted on running several diagnostics, to which Zelena submitted with eye-rolling bad grace. She managed not to either complain too much or kill the nurse, however, and when she had been given a clean bill of health, said, "Well, that took forever. Now that you're done, munchkin, you really should toddle off and do something about your hair. Thank heavens I was unconscious and didn't have to look at it."

Emma cleared her throat.

"By which I mean. . ." Zelena paused and tried again. It was clearly difficult for her to relate to people on any other level than the reflexively glib and destructive, the place Killian and Regina had lived for so long and had struggled so hard to overcome, but she seemed aware that the effort had to be made. "Thank you for taking care of me. I don't think anyone ever has. Now, _really._ I'll give you forty quid, go visit the salon."

Zelena reached for her purse and pulled out a few crumpled twenty-pound notes, which she handed to the nurse, looking almost proud of herself as the long-suffering supernatural health care professional exited. "You know," she said. "This is rather fun."

Emma managed a smile. "You've got a few kinks to work out, but you're going in the right direction. But I have a question, since you and Nimue worked together. Do you. . . do you by chance read hieroglyphs?"

"The Book of the Dead?" Zelena frowned. "No, darling, I don't. It's very boring and fussy, and besides, I never _saw_ the actual thing, after all. Why?"

"I just thought. . . if there was something in there about how to bring the cage back and free Killian. . ."

Zelena considered. Then she said, "If there's anyone who _would_ know how, it's Arthur. He spent ages studying Merlin's magic and writings and prophecies – rather unhelpfully, obviously – and then after that, Nimue's. But after what just went on, I doubt he's feeling in a cooperative mood. It would so ruin his broody sulk and track record of never making the right decision."

Regina cleared her throat even louder than Emma had, as if to remind Zelena that since her own glass house was still so freshly demolished, she should probably refrain from chucking stones at anyone else's. But what she said was, "Is there any way you could convince him?"

"Honestly, sis, I don't know." Zelena shrugged. "I could try. But what am I supposed to tell him? He's sitting in prison, he's deposed as Potentate, the witan is going to thoroughly review the Old Ones registry and discover all his squirrely dealings – I have nothing to bargain with. And as you've probably gathered, he's not an altruist."

"Maybe Henry can help you," Emma said. "He was the one trying to remind Arthur that he's supposed to be the once and future king, the hero, back at the mansion before all hell broke loose. Arthur's crazy and dangerous and vain and misguided, yes, but I still don't think he's completely evil. There has to be something that can reach him."

"Well, Henry and I can drop by, if you want," Zelena said. "Do you have the Book with you?"

Emma hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out the ancient papyrus scrolls. She heard Regina's hiss at the thought of handing this much power over to Zelena – if she was, however improbably, still playing them to gain their trust and steal the Book from them, to complete Nimue's noble work and take over the world. Emma herself had a moment of doubt, but squared her shoulders and made up her mind. "Here. I hope I don't need to tell you to be careful."

"I'll be careful." Zelena took it, did something with her fingers, and converted it back into a fireball, which she stashed tidily in her purse. "There. Less risk of damage that way. While Henry and I are paying our prison visit, there's somewhere else you could look. There's a professor of folklore and supernatural history at the University of London – also a vampire and an Old One, so you can be assured he knows what he's talking about. Bit too goody two-shoes for my taste, but he may be able to point you in the direction of any other magic or Arthurian rubbish that could help. Here's his card." She dug in her purse again and handed it over.

"Thanks," Emma said, genuinely touched. "We'll do that. Do you need a daylight shot? I mean, well, you're not two hundred yet, and considering what you've been through, your endurance might not exactly be where it should – "

Zelena shuddered. "I think I'll take my chances. We shouldn't be outside for long, anyway. Oh look, my wardrobe."

Henry was just making his reappearance with a few Primark bags, and while the ignominy of dressing in discount fashion was clearly considerable, Zelena sighed deeply and vanished into the bathroom with no further comment. She reemerged in a few minutes, informed Henry of the plan, and once he had agreed to accompany her on a visit to Arthur in the vampire clink, turned back to Emma. "I. . ." she said awkwardly. "I don't know how to. . . I just. . . thank you."

"You saved my life at Arthur's. I. . . wanted to return the favor," Emma answered just as awkwardly. They stood looking at each other for a long moment, until they finally stepped forward, knocked into each other, and tentatively hugged, for the very first time. She still wasn't up to calling Zelena "Mom" yet, but also for the first time, imagined – hoped – that a day might come when she would. _If I can make it long enough to remember it._

With that, she and Regina departed on their own errand, emerging into what was now a damp midmorning and retracing their steps back to Russell Square and across to the University of London. After some scouting among the identical square white buildings, they found the office they were looking for, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door, standing tensely until it was answered. The professor was apparently enough of an Old One to keep daylight hours; tall, handsome, scruffy, and sandy-haired, he was charming and gracious when they explained their unusual errand, sympathetic for their loss, and promised that if they had a minute, he would pop by the Institute of Historical Research and fetch a few books for them. As they sat in chairs across from his desk, waiting for him to return, Regina said abruptly, "Did he suffer? Killian?"

"He. . ." Emma's throat had closed. "He was determined. He read the Book of the Dead and I used its power, we fought back against Gold and did what had to be done. I wanted him to take the antidote, but he wouldn't. He said that since time doesn't exist in the cage, he couldn't get any worse, and so if he was alive when he went in, he'd stay that way. I don't know what good that ultimately does him, though. Merlin said that heartbreak could get him out of the cage, and it worked when Henry was turned, but I don't think it'll work this time."

Regina closed her eyes briefly, but her face remained impassive. After a moment she said, "At least he stopped Gold for good, at last. Maybe they were destined to go like that. Together." She snorted a mirthless laugh. "Odds on which one drives the other insane first?"

Emma wanted to answer, but couldn't. Didn't want to think of Killian trapped for all eternity with his mortal enemy, frozen at the moment of what otherwise should have been his death. Fortunately, she was spared by the return of the professor, carrying an armload of reassuringly thick and musty old books. "Had to dig these out from deep in the archives," he explained, "and technically you're not allowed to take them off campus, but I signed them out supposedly for my research purposes. Just don't spill any tea on them or anything, and we'll call it square."

"Thank you so much." Emma let out another unsteady breath, touching the worn-out gilt title on the cover of the top book: _An Comprehynsive Compendivme of Ancient English Practicall Magick & Sorcerye._ "You've been very helpful, and. . . look, this is a bit of an odd request and you don't have any obligation, but my – well, our, I'm his biological mother and Regina's his blood mother – our son is an English professor at Harvard. At least he was, I don't know if there will be a job waiting for him when he gets back. He was turned into a vampire a few weeks ago, and I was wondering if you might, you know. Be able to give him pointers on how to balance it with working in human academia. I realize you're a lot older than he is, so it's different, but. . . there can't be a ton of others like you two, and it would. . . it would mean a lot to us."

"I'd be delighted," the professor said gently. "What's his email?"

Emma scribbled down Henry's Harvard address and then, after a moment, his personal Gmail one as well, thinking he probably wouldn't mind. They found a set of disused cartons to put the books in, so they wouldn't be strolling out with old and valuable volumes tucked under their arms, and he helped carry them down the steps and across the way to Russell Square. After they had deposited them in Killian's living room and he was about to head back to work, he said, "Anything else you need, please do be in touch. We're practically neighbors, after all."

"Thank you." Regina looked at him for a long moment. "Really. We're indebted, Dr. Locksley. Very. . . very much so."

"Please," he said, and smiled at her. "Call me Robin."

* * *

Zelena and Henry weren't back yet. Will had gone home to shower, call Elsa, and catch a few winks of sleep. Liam had returned to the pack to make sure the last trouble spots had been snuffed out and there was no more chance of a war starting, whether accidentally or on purpose. Regina said she was going to head down to the witan and borrow a drone for a feed, and David and Mary Margaret had dozed off on the couch. So Emma wandered upstairs by herself, down the hall into the dim master bedroom, and shut the door behind her, leaning against it as her knees wanted to give out, but she would not let them. She wondered how Old Ones bore the weight of centuries, when even fifty years felt like an impossible burden. She would not cry; she had wept her fill back at the hospital, and now she was dry, arid, tearless. She wanted to start reading the books Robin had found, but had no idea what to look out for or whether it was advisable to even get her hopes up at all. But it didn't matter. She had to turn over every rock, follow every avenue, do whatever she could to see if there was any possible way to undo this, to bring Killian back. Forgetting or not, she couldn't live with herself if she didn't.

Supposing she should get some rest as well, Emma crawled into bed, pulling the sheets up and breathing the faint scent of him that still lingered. She felt almost detached, floating, as if she was in a small refuge far from the world, as if she could in fact forget everything for just a sweet short while. She reached over to the other side of the bed, rolling the quilts and pressing her knuckles into it, trying to imagine that Killian was there, but couldn't quite conjure the illusion long enough to comfort herself. She had never in her life been so very, very lonely.

Despite everything, she must have dropped off, because she awoke some indeterminate time later, sore and groggy, to the sound of voices from downstairs. Groaning, she rolled out of bed, wondered if dying from being a vampire made you a zombie, and figured that she both looked and felt the part. After a brief visit to the bathroom to correct the worst of these disfigurements, she headed down, unable to repress a passing, ludicrous hope that Killian had just arrived on the train from Essex and walked home to be very surprised at all the industry on his behalf.

It wasn't. It was Zelena and Henry, looking tired but pleased with themselves. They were carrying a folder filled with a stack of notebook pages, scrawled on both sides with an elegant black hand, and Emma's jaw dropped. "Did you actually get Arthur to translate the Book of the Dead?"

"Yeah," Henry said modestly. "I had to work on him for about an hour, but he finally came around. It was. . . I don't know how to describe the feeling. I mean, when you're sitting there talking to one of your longtime literary heroes, who's actually real but not so much a hero, asking him to make sense of one of the most famous old manuscripts in the world so you have a chance to save your dad from Merlin's cage. . . what _would_ you call it, exactly?"

Emma's heart clenched at hearing Henry refer to Killian as his father – well, it _was_ the truth, they'd been fumbling their way into establishing the boundaries of their strange little family all day long. She glanced at David, as if expecting him to take umbrage that his proprietary designation had been usurped, but he didn't. So she said, "Henry, that's amazing. We're so proud of you. Do you – do you need a break? We don't want to run you ragged."

"I think I'm good for now, if I can just grab a feed first." Henry flashed a crooked grin. "Aunt Zelena and I are going to get cracking on this and the books, but it would go faster if we had someone to help. Someone who knows magic and all this kind of stuff." With that, he turned his head and looked at Regina. "Mom?"

For a long moment, Regina was at a loss, as that was likewise the first time Henry had ever called her that. She opened and shut her mouth, as Emma was left to consider that in a very real way, it was Henry – this brave, compassionate, clever, wise, wonderful man – who had brought their jagged pieces together, who was making them into a real family. Her, Killian, Liam, Regina, Zelena, in all their damages and their disasters and their flaws. He had been the one who had stubbornly insisted in turn and to all of them, when they could not in the least believe it themselves, that they mattered, that they were worth saving, that whatever dark and terrible place they were in did not have to be the end. He would help do it again for Killian now. And it was in that moment of knowing, of seeing what a truly fine adult he had become – that he _was_ grown up, not that boy she had had to give up when he was ten years old, not knowing how and not knowing why – that Emma felt, at last, something unlock and let go inside her. The burden of the guilt she had borne unceasingly for these twenty-two years, of thinking she could have done better, that she had failed him. Some small part of her would still always wonder what might have been, but she hadn't. She and all his other parents had not failed in the least. And in turn, and just as faithfully, Henry refused to fail them. Never would. No matter what.

Regina took a deep breath as Emma did likewise, both of them discreetly rubbing their eyes as Henry waited for their answer. Finally Regina said, very softly, "If the two of you would trust me to do that. . ." Her eyes flickered to her sister. "I would be happy to help."

Emma was expecting Zelena to have something smart to say; neither of the Mills women were ever lacking in that regard. But instead, she seemed equally taken off guard, searching for the words. Then instead, she held out her hand. "Peace?"

Regina looked at her, then nodded. They grasped hold, shook as formally as if sealing a business arrangement – and then, startling each other, pulled instead into a fierce, silent embrace, which likewise must have been the first one they had ever shared. They rocked back and forth, as Emma and Henry caught each other's eye over their heads. She wanted to say how proud she was, how very, very proud, but likewise, all the words she could think of seemed trite and flimsy, insufficient. So she just reached out, took hold of his hand, and held on.

After another moment, Regina and Zelena broke apart, coughing and looking rather embarrassed. "Well," Regina said, clearing her throat. "Those books aren't going to read themselves. Should we get started?"

Her intrepid assistants agreed, and they trooped into the kitchen, which had been converted into a makeshift research den; Henry looked delighted, as he clearly hadn't been in this much nerd heaven since taking his leave of absence from Harvard. Emma wanted to help them, or at least keep them company, but she found it alternately nerve-wracking and tedious to sit there and watch them read. Her pulse kept spiking every time they hurried to write something down, praying that this was it, this was the break in the case, and then the disappointment when it wasn't felt like twisting the knife. Finally, as she was getting up to wander restlessly back to the living room, David Nolan appeared at the other end of the hallway. "Emma, how about Mary Margaret and I take you to dinner? Now that. . . now that you're human, I mean. It seems a bit of a shame to come to London and not get to actually enjoy any of it."

"I. . ." Emma remembered Nimue telling her that Snow and James had been a bit like the Nolans, that perhaps she had been unconsciously searching for what she had never known she had lost. "I'd like that. Thank you."

They got their coats and stepped out into the evening, walking in the city glow as black cabs and Ubers and delivery vans and red double-decker buses sloshed by them, in no hurry to find a place and doing their best to simply breathe. It was misting lightly, so David opened a large umbrella and offered one arm to his wife and then the other to Emma. She paused, then took it, abjectly grateful for this quiet, steadfast gesture of sympathy. No elaborate displays, no pitying her, no sermons about how he was sorry for her loss – just letting her know that he was there, and would be there, if there was anything he could do to make this wretched ordeal in the least bit easier. She didn't know if that was possible, but for now, at least, it was.

They ended up somewhere in Notting Hill, elegant rowhouses and flowering trees lining the winding streets and neighborhood markets shutting up shop for the night, in a dim Italian place with a basket of delicious, buttery garlic bread and several bottles of wine. It was still strange to eat human food again, but not quite as much as before, and as they were waiting for their entrees, David said, "We've been thinking. If things don't work out as we hope, and you return to Boston by yourself. . . we don't want you to be alone. If you wanted to move in with us in Lexington, there's plenty of space in the house with the boys gone. We'd be just your roommates, and you'd certainly have your boundaries and your privacy. We don't expect anything, any money, nothing like that. If you'd rather stay in your apartment, we understand, but. . ."

Emma had to swallow hard, as it briefly felt as if the garlic bread had gotten stuck in her throat. "That's very. . . very kind of you. You've certainly been a wonderful place for Henry to grow up, and I can't thank you enough for that. I just. . . I don't know. I appreciate the offer, but I can't decide now. I. . ." She trailed off, twisting her hands in her lap. Half to herself, she said, "I just really want Killian to come home."

Mary Margaret looked at her softly. "And you don't want to make any plans for what happens if he doesn't, because it would feel like you'd given up hope. You've been so brave, Emma, for so long. I know it doesn't necessarily feel like you have been, or that everything you've lost has been worth it, but this city is safe, the world will go on, and countless thousands – perhaps millions – of people, whether mortal or supernatural, owe their lives to you, the war you stopped and the sacrifices you made to defeat Nimue and then do it again with Gold. I know as well we've mostly had to watch from the sidelines, but believe me. We've noticed. And if the time comes when you need someone to be there for you, we want to do that for you."

Emma nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Finally she said, "Maybe it was just destiny, because I was the _universus._ The same thing anyone would – would _have_ to – have done."

"No," Mary Margaret said firmly. "It wasn't. As you've learned, if one thing has mattered at all through this entire ordeal, it's our choices. _Your_ choices. And in the worst of times, every time, you did the most difficult and heroic thing. That may be a poor consolation prize to you, but it should not be underestimated. I hope you can eventually come to terms with that."

"If I don't just forget it," Emma said, barely above a whisper. "If this doesn't all vanish in the gloaming, and I don't even realize the weight of what I lost."

Mary Margaret didn't answer, but reached over the table and squeezed her hand, and the two women held hard for a long moment. More wine was poured all around, and they ate slowly, in proper Italian fashion, as the restaurant emptied around them. Finally, they left quite late and, not wanting to walk across the city at this hour, hailed a cab back to Russell Square. All of them were yawning as they headed up the steps of the house, but inside, the research colloquium was proceeding undimmed. At the sight of them, Henry looked up with an odd expression. "Hey. How was dinner?"

"It was. . . it was nice." Emma shucked her coat, noting that Regina and Zelena were looking at her as well. "What happened? What's going on? Did you figure something out?"

The three of them traded significant glances. Finally, it was Henry who was silently elected spokesman. "We have good news and bad news. You might want to take a seat."

Emma's heart lurched. Feeling as if she had been invited into the doctor's office to discuss some not-promising scan results, she sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, David and Mary Margaret positioning themselves bracingly behind her. She twisted her hands together, trying to tell herself that she was ready to hear this, whatever it was, when she knew she probably wasn't. "Okay?"

"Well," Henry said. "The good news. We can make a potion that can stop you from forgetting. It's pretty vile stuff, and you'd have to take it every month, but it should do the trick. Zelena would want to mess with the formula first and make sure it was properly adapted for a human, but that wouldn't take too long. So that's cool, right?"

"Yeah," Emma said, lips starting to go numb. God, how she had hoped the good news was about Killian. "Pretty cool. Nice job, that's great." The next words had to be wrestled out. "So. . . the other news is. . .?"

Henry grimaced, looking at the women, as he clearly did not want to be the one to do this. After a long moment, Regina spoke, in a calm, clinical tone. "From everything we've looked at, all the spells we've gone through, Arthur's translation of the Book of the Dead and the ones Robin brought. . . there is no way to open the cage a second time. I don't know if it was supposed to be possible to get Merlin out at all, but there you have it. We can't even bring it back; we tried reading the incantation that you and Killian used at the mansion to summon it, and nothing happened. I don't know if it's only effective in hieroglyphs or what, but that doesn't seem likely. The cage is an eternal prison, that was its whole point. Maybe if Merlin was still alive, we could get him to tell us something, but as he's not. . ." She looked at Emma helplessly. "I'm sorry."

There was a very long, very terrible silence.

"We have to get an Egyptologist from the university or the British Museum," Emma said faintly. "We have to have them read it in the original, just in case. Maybe Arthur didn't translate the papyri correctly. Maybe there are more books Robin missed the first time around. We have to keep looking. There has to be something."

"Maybe," Regina said gently. "But the chances of that being the case are very, very small. We can keep hope, of course. If nothing else, we've seen that almost anything is possible. But you have to understand that that's a dream, a fantasy. The reality as we see it now is that neither Killian nor Gold are ever coming back."

"There has to be something." Emma bolted to her feet, even as David and Mary Margaret reached to put quelling hands on her shoulders. _"There has to be something!_ There have to be other supernatural libraries, old manuscripts, references to Merlin's magic. We could go back and get _Liber incarcerati_ from the mansion – we could – "

"Mom." Henry was clearly trying very hard to keep it together. "If there was any other way, any other possibility, any faint lead that any of us saw, we would have told you, I promise. We're not conspiring to keep something from you. All of us will do whatever we can for you, but. . ."

"Where's Liam?" Emma demanded. "Will? Do they know? Have you asked the wolves if there are any resources on their end?"

"They're on their way over," Henry said quietly. "I called them and told them we had something they should probably hear."

That took her like a bullet in the heart. The world reeled under her, and the next moment, she was on her knees, not entirely certain how she had gotten there or if she was ever planning to stand up again. David was kneeling next to her, holding her shoulders hard, and she had a brief sensation that she was outside her own body and looking down at it, observing like a scientist in a laboratory. They got her up and back into her chair; she didn't even care. She stared flatly at the wall, aware they were still talking but not taking in a word of it. Barely registered Liam and Will's subsequent arrival or the way Henry took them privately aside into the living room, and barely heard a howl, something thrown at the wall and hitting it with a crash. Didn't even turn around or wonder more than in passing which one of them it had been. Just remained where she was, unmoving. She wanted to shout at them for giving up, for deciding in one evening that there was no remaining avenue, even as the more coldly logical part of her brain reminded her that there had scarcely been a chance in the first place. Killian had known when he went into the cage that he wasn't coming out again, and yet she couldn't even mourn him properly, because he wasn't actually dead. Just frozen, trapped beyond the walls of time, out of sight and out of space and out of reach, the ghost in the machine. Would he even notice how long it had been? Would he still be there at the uttermost end, billions and billions of years from now, watching the stars collapse in and the sun snuff out, the fabric of the universe fold in on itself for the last time? That was, after all, immortality in its purest form, the true terror of never being able, under any circumstances, to die. That almost made her grateful, in a sick and demented way, that for whatever reason, supernaturals still could.

She continued to sit there as the eddies of conversation went back and forth above her head. It felt as if they were at a wake, as if they might open beers and start fondly reminiscing about Killian's life, laughter and tears and trying to begin the healing process, to move on. The way people did when they lost a loved one, when they had no choice but to face it and find their pieces once again. Absolutely everyone would at some point in their life, or had, or feared the day that they did. She certainly was no stranger to it. Yet this just stretched before her impassably and to all sides, into the wings of heaven and the reaches of hell, with no way above or around or under or through. Just there, forever.

Someone poured her a drink. She sipped it; it tasted like rum. Regina sat down next to her, not saying a word, and poured herself one as well, clearly not caring that technically she couldn't drink it. Finally she said, "Do you want me to make the memory potion, Emma? As soon as Zelena tests it, of course. We could get that done for you, if you wanted."

"I. . ." Emma looked around at them, feeling her voice come out of her like a stranger's, like a ventriloquist's puppet. At the sound of it, they turned toward her, as if the bereaved widow was going to say a few words, thank them for the support. _Not that was even what I am._ "All of you have been very. . ." She stopped, tried again. "I'm glad that you. . ." No, not that either. It was like walking down a long, empty seashore, the waves curling away into the distance, washing out her footprints behind her. No looking back. Could not bear to.

"I'm a human now," she said instead, as if they somehow hadn't noticed. "And I don't know if I want to keep taking drugs for the rest of my life, hanging around on the periphery of your world, when I can't get back to it and I can't move on and I can't do anything but stay in that moment, suffering. That would be just as if I had gone into the cage myself, and I don't think K. . . Killian would want that. I don't think I could ever truly forget any of you. Somewhere, some part of me will always hold onto you. But I. . . I can't. I can't stay here, I can't be in the supernatural world, without him. And if I want to have anything really left of whatever time I do have. . ." She closed her eyes, and felt her heart, with a small, delicate click, snap very gently and quietly in half. "I have to let go."

Nobody said a word. Likely they couldn't either. The weight of the silence was beyond that, beyond any leavening. She heard Mary Margaret's words from dinner again. _And in the worst of times, every time, you did the most difficult and heroic thing._ As if it was supposed to matter. As if it could possibly be enough. As if this was anything but falling, and falling, and burning.

"But the potion," Zelena said at last, sounding as if she didn't quite understand. "Emma, we can make it for you. I'll work it out. Right away."

"I know you can." Emma opened her eyes. She felt almost light, as if there was finally nothing left inside her to lose. "But I don't want it. Maybe Nimue was wrong. Maybe I won't forget. As I said, I don't think I ever completely could. But if I want to live. . . I have to leave this world behind, and be what I am now. And I can't do that if I'm still tied to this and I can never, ever do anything but dwell on it. I can't heal from losing him. I can't start over if it's the only thing in my mind, and it would be. I was a vampire. I'll live for a while. I could have fifty more years. Maybe longer. He'll be with me, in a way. He always will. But it can't be like this."

"You won't forget me," Henry said. "I'll still be in Boston. I'm not going anywhere."

"No," Emma agreed. "I won't. I knew you before any of this happened, from your very beginnings. You'll still be my son. That will never change. But once I no longer know you're a vampire, once the rest of it is gone, then please. Don't try to remind me. I can think you have the same nocturnal hours as any academic and you have a fad diet. But I couldn't stand remembering, only to know that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it."

"We were supposed to have a home," Zelena said softly. "In Salem. I was going to fix up your room, with a window looking out over the bay. You could still live there. I'd say I was your. . ." She hesitated, in search of anything that could possibly suffice. "Your friend," she finished. "I'd say I was your friend."

"I'll visit you," Emma said, looking down at the table. "Henry can take me, a few years from now. Tell me that you're an old college buddy of his, something like that. But it has to be a while. The same goes if I ever come back to London. I just. . . I can't."

Once again, nobody had anything to say. The prospect was too raw, too impossible, even with all of them to share its burden. Knowing that they would stay in her life in some odd, invisible way – still around her, still seeing her every so often, but for her own good, agreeing not to remind her of who they used to be. She wondered then who they were mourning more: her or Killian, or both of them. As if since she had stopped Nimue, and he had stopped Gold, this was the price that came with it. Saved the world, and given up their own souls.

"Somebody do me a favor," she said at last, into the quiet. "I was. . . I wanted to start a blog on Fangd, a while ago. A sort of advice column for new vampires, helping them find their way in the supernatural world, so they didn't have to blindly make it up as they went. I didn't think I had anything useful to say, or that it would get off the ground, so I quit trying. But now, if you would. . . I think it would be a nice thing for you to remember me by. Even if I don't."

"I'll do it," Henry said, without a moment of hesitation. "I'll call it _The Truth About Fangs."_

Emma laughed despite herself, even as she was teetering on the brink of tears. "Sounds good."

"I'll help," Regina put in. "I obviously know a thing or two more than he does, so I'll see that it gets to the fledglings who need to read it. As long as you do us one favor in return."

"Yes?"

"Let us tell them who it's in memory of, and why. We won't tell you, as agreed. But they deserve to know. Our world deserves to know. If you forget, we. . . we never should."

Emma, once again finding no words that seemed to do, simply nodded. After another few moments she said, "I'll leave for Boston tomorrow. I think it's time I went home. It's enough, now. It's done. If I don't call or text, just. . . understand why."

"I'll drive you to the airport," Will volunteered. "No likelihood of you forgetting that, eh?"

"I'll come with you," Liam added, very quietly. "Make sure you get onto the plane safely, that you have money to pay whatever bills you might have fallen behind on. Whatever I can. For. . . for Killian's sake. I know he had quite a bit in the bank, and I'll make sure you get it. It should keep you for a while. I don't want you to go back to working in bail bonds."

Emma looked at him, then nodded again. Her future had turned nebulous, opaque, and her heart was broken for any number of reasons. What stretched before her felt half real, half dream, impossible and unreachable and necessary all at once. Her world had never felt so huge and so fragile and so precious all at once. She hungered very much to die, to sleep, to rest, almost as much as she still hungered, she hoped, she wanted, however foolishly, to live.

She reached for her glass of rum, as the others reached for theirs, and raised it. "To Killian," she said, and one more time, by candlelight, in the silence of the night, they drank.

* * *

He wasn't sure where he was, or even if it _was_ a where. Or, for that matter, a when. Always in his very long life he had been inexorably aware of time, of its passing, of how long it had been, how long, how long. Since the moment when it changed and crumpled on him, when it was gone. Some vampires barely noticed the years at all, but he always had, no matter how much and how far he ran, into the momentary solace of drink or darkness or killing. It had always been an ever-widening tide between who he had been and who he was, a twisted, stunted, broken thing with no chance of living properly, undead state or otherwise. Just existing, unchanged, forever. Just going on. Whoever thought dying was hard had clearly never tried the alternative.

To be freed from that now was, therefore, baffling beyond belief. He couldn't quite wrap his head around it. He had a sensation as if he was floating, not a modicum of him or his thought or memory or grief anywhere else than here, and a rest too great for words. He wanted to lap in it, wanted to luxuriate in it, wanted to soak his weary bones and flesh and sinew and soul, but even thinking about it made him more aware, and then he began to recognize his pieces, him _self._ It mattered to him, somehow, that he still had it, even after how far he had fled in revulsion of it. Words. A name. _Him._

Killian Bartholomew Jones opened his eyes.

For a long moment, he saw nothing but a formless glow, gentle and colorless – he thought it was white at first, but then it seemed green, or gold, or the soft rich rose of a summer sunset at sea. Then, slowly, as it gained more coherence, he realized that he wasn't outside, he was inside. Four walls, a ceiling. It looked like a tavern, but the cleanest and quietest tavern he'd been in, as there were no other patrons or barmaids or rowdy drunks. Looked, in fact, almost like the old Hook and Compass in Covent Garden, the one he'd patronized as a young lieutenant with Liam, where Milah had worked. The one he'd bought later, turning it into a den for vampires and a monument to his wolf slaughter, before it had burned in that mysterious fire that must have been Gold's doing on Regina's information, the wolf skins were stolen, and it was lost. The site had gone through various iterations, some more embarrassing than others (little Waitrose came to mind) before finally being bought by new owners determined to turn the site back into the historic tavern. It was a bit pretentious, really: all the wood aged to look as if it had been here since the sixteenth century, low ceilings and dim corners, crooked beams, the lot, in order to sucker in impressionable tourists eager to part with their money in an authentic English pub experience. Terrible, false, crass. He'd haunted it. It was, in fact, coming here because it was the closest thing he had to anything that felt like home, that he had, one night, met a young, heartbroken werewolf named Will Scarlet.

Killian pushed himself upright, glancing around. He wondered if this strange version of it still served a pint; vampire or not, he could use one. Perhaps he was supposed to wait here, and someone would come for him, show him to whatever corner of eternity he would be spending the rest of his never-ending time. Or –

"Hello, Killian."

The voice came from behind him, startling him, and he flashed around; even his enhanced senses had heard nothing, no trace. Then he stared, because the person who had just stepped out of a door (he hadn't seen that either, but there it was, closing behind her) – was Milah. Not Milah as he last remembered her, dead in her own blood with her heart physically torn from her chest, crushed in Gold's grasp, but Milah as he'd known her, Milah as she'd lived. Whole and real, dark curls knotted out of her face, wearing her favorite blue dress. She came to a halt a few paces from him, and smiled softly. "It's good to see you."

"I. . ." Vampires didn't dream, he'd always known that. Somehow, improbably, this had to be happening. "Am I dead? Is that why I'm here?"

"You're out of time. Out of space. Not tied to anywhere, anywhen. Why shouldn't you be here?"

"Is he – " Struck by a terrible thought that this was some kind of eternal torment, and he'd have to watch Gold kill her again, over and over and over, Killian bolted around. "Is _he_ here too?"

"We all make our own prisons," Milah said. "This isn't one of his."

Killian still peered suspiciously into the corners, but had to admit he did not see any sign of Gold anywhere. He looked back, instead, at her. Reached out, expecting her to be insubstantial, but instead their fingers met, grasped, and held hard for a long moment, neither of them saying a word. "I'm sorry," he said, barely above a whisper. "I don't know if you saw what happened to me after you died. I don't know if you saw what I did. I almost hope you don't, but if you do – "

"I know," Milah said. "I know all of it."

"Oh." Killian didn't know whether or not he should be relieved, but that was, oddly, how he felt. "You're not. . . angry?"

"What on earth good," she said, "would it do if I was? And besides, I always knew who you were. What you'd do, and what you'd hate yourself for. That's why I came. I had to tell you the last part. So you'd know it was all right."

"What?"

Milah smiled again. He had never seen such love, such grief, such pride, on someone's face. "Let go."

"Of. . . of what?"

"Everything," Milah said. "It's time. You don't belong there anymore, Killian. You don't belong to what used to be. You can still go forward. You can still have a future."

"How? I'm shut in this bloody cage."

"Cages open." She looked at him for a long moment. "Perhaps not from the outside. Or perhaps even if the door was unlocked, if we sat there and never tried to open it, we'd never find out. We live too long being afraid. Keeping the door shut, because we know it would hurt too much if we pushed at it again." She shrugged. "But you know me. I never stopped trying to escape."

"No." His throat was tight. "You never did."

"So." She met his eyes again. "Do you want to give it one more chance?"

"I. . ." The sensation of rest, of cessation, of quiet, where he had been nothing and nowhere, was tantalizing. Away from everything, from the possibility of any more pain or grief or guilt. But even as he considered it, there were other faces in his head. Liam. Will. Henry. Regina. The Nolans. Even bloody Zelena, if she'd made it. And of course, the greatest, central, burning, beautiful, brilliant one of them all. Incandescent. The light coming off her could rattle the stars.

"Aye," he said. "I think I would."

Milah smiled once again, and offered him her hand. He took it, and she led him across the way, out of the tavern, and into a harbor beyond. It was full sun here, pouring down on them, and yet, oddly, for a creature of night and terror, a vampire Old One who'd spent centuries hiding from it, he felt no pain at all. Just wanted to breathe it in, dazzling on the water like melted butter and smooth oil, paving a golden road out toward the open sea.

In a few moments, they arrived at a dock, and there was a ship moored to it. A ship which, Killian realized, he also knew: it was HMS _Imperator,_ the Royal Navy vessel that he and Liam had served on together. Sailed it into London for Liam's promotion hearing, where he was supposed to become commodore and their futures secured, and never left again. Not after the violence and chaos of their deaths, one made a werewolf and the other a vampire, and the centuries of oblivion and madness that had followed. His old girl looked just as he remembered, but better. Sails crisp, pennons flying, boards freshly tarred and caulked, riding at anchor with creaks and bumps. He breathed in salt and hemp and turpentine, and smiled. _Ready for one last voyage?_

After a long moment, he turned to Milah. "Where do I take her?"

"I think you'll work that out." She beckoned at it. "Go on. Get on board."

He hesitated, then took her hand one final time, pressing it to his lips in a kiss, the way he had the night they met. "Goodbye," he whispered. "Thank you."

"No." Milah's voice quivered, but she managed a smile. "Thank _you._ Now go on. Tide's going out. Hurry. Go."

Killian paused, then nodded, and did as she said. Let go. Of her hand, aye, but more than that, striding up the gangplank and feeling the boards quiver beneath his feet as the sails stirred in the breath of an invisible wind. Went to the wheel, took hold of it, and looked down at Milah's small figure on the dock, growing ever brighter and more indistinct around the edges. Waved.

She waved back, then cupped her hands around her mouth, calling up at him. "One more thing. Tell Emma I like her."

Killian smiled to himself, small at first and then wider, until it spread across his face in an impossible rictus of pure joy, until he was nearly laughing and couldn't stop, didn't remember the last time he had. Wanted to wrap it around himself, warmly as the sunshine, and hold it forever – but this time, now, he didn't. Glanced back one final time as the _Imperator_ took the breeze, and didn't see Milah at all. Just a fiercely blinding glow where she had been.

So instead, he turned his gaze forward. Felt the sea wind ruffle his hair, saw the horizon open up infinitely before him. Didn't know quite where he was going, or how long it would take him to get there, but for once, that was utterly all right with him. To enjoy the journey, and patiently await the destination. So he spun the wheel, and tasted the spray on his lips, and began to sail.


	30. Chapter 30

_**Three Years Later** _

She had been having that dream again. Third time this week. She could go days or months in between it, but it always cropped up again, leaving her to wake flushed, arched, wanting, waiting, aching, alone. It felt foolish, probably just menopausal mood swings, because how could she miss a man she'd never met? Maybe she'd ask Henry about it, as any weird investigation was right up his alley, if there had been some kind of well-known local ghost knocking around this place before she bought it, a trim brick bungalow on a leafy residential street in Charlestown. It was old enough that that could be the case, and she'd gotten it at a bargain because the house, to put it kindly, was a fixer-upper. Some distant relative had died and left her a large inheritance, the sort of thing that usually only happened in movies, so she had quit the bail-bonds gig, moved out of her old apartment, bought this place, and spent her days peeling, priming, painting, striping, papering, plastering, sawing, hammering, drywalling, and otherwise giving herself a crash course in home improvement. But it was, at last, starting to look really nice, and maybe that was the reason for the resurgence of the dreams. Maybe she was stirring up some old spirit attached to it, who didn't know what to make of all these changes, and they – no, _he,_ it most assuredly being of the masculine persuasion – wanted her to stop. Though to be sure, seducing her was a strange (though far from disagreeable) way to get his point across.

Emma's face warmed as she sat up in bed, morning sunlight falling in stripes through her newly fitted Venetian blinds. Well, if a very attractive ghost wanted to make love to her in her dreams, she wasn't going to complain – a fifty-three-year-old single woman who spent the days with paint chips in her hair and her evenings with Netflix wasn't exactly choosing from a line out the door. Not that she was a dog, as she couldn't go to the gym without some middle manager in mid-life crisis taking note of her lack of a wedding ring and trying to smarmily chat her up on the treadmill. Quality options, however, were almost nonexistent. And she didn't want them anyway. It would most likely land her on some low-budget cable show talking earnestly about her ghost lover and the beautiful connection they shared (presumably through her tinfoil hat) but she was starting to have a bit of a thing for this particular figment of her imagination. It was easier to get through the day thinking she might fall asleep and have one of those dreams, and the satisfaction when she woke, for one perfect instant, was real. Then it faded, it wasn't, it was just something she should probably see a specialist about, and the world went inexorably, endlessly onward.

Emma threw the quilts aside and headed into the bathroom. It was June, Henry had turned in his graded exams and papers from the spring semester three days ago, and he said he had somewhere he wanted to take her. Not, perish the thought, out for a walk in the fresh air, as he, probably due to his reclusive-academic tendencies, was not particularly fond of strong sunlight. She also worried about the fact that he never seemed to eat while she was around, but he assured her that it was another byproduct of his long work hours, and he always had a good dinner when he got home. He didn't appear to be dying of iron deficiency or abject starvation or whatever else, so Emma did her best not to nag. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to be working. He didn't look like he'd aged a day.

She stood in the shower, enjoying the sensation of the hot water drumming down on her, then got out, dried, and dressed. Maybe this mysterious excursion had something to do with the Nolans, as she and Henry's adoptive parents had gotten quite close in the past few years. They didn't seem worried about him either, and they'd probably know best, so there was that. Sometimes, though, Emma had the sensation that they had been talking about something, just before she entered the room, and abruptly changed the subject. It was disquieting, but of course she didn't have a right to all their private business. Probably best that they didn't know the half of hers.

Emma made herself some coffee and reheated a cinnamon roll, then sat down in the sunny breakfast nook to eat quickly before Henry arrived. Once she had done so, brushed her teeth, and checked her makeup, she pulled on her sunglasses and went outside to wait on the porch, wondering if perhaps some kind of major announcement was in the offing. Henry and his girlfriend, Violet Percy, were fairly serious, and they _had_ taken one of his regular trips to London over spring break. Emma had overheard him say something about introducing her to the family, although she had no idea which family he could possibly mean. Maybe it was some kind of bizarre academic initiation ritual. At least Henry would probably have free or discounted flights for the rest of his life, with all the frequent-flyer miles he racked up on British Airways.

A few minutes later, there was a honk, and Henry's car – a sporty black Toyota coupe – pulled up. She grinned and trotted down the front walk, opening the passenger door and leaning over to kiss his cheek quickly; he was wearing the stylish designer shades he usually had on during the day. "Hey, kid." He was thirty-five, but it was hard to break the habit. "You've got me excited about this secret operation of yours. Where are we headed?"

"Salem." Henry put the car in gear and rolled away from the curb. "I, uh, have an old college friend of mine who wants to meet you. I've told her a lot about you."

Emma was surprised, but not unwarrantedly so; Henry seemed to have a number of peculiar acquaintances. "Really? Why all the mystery?"

"I wasn't actually going for it." Henry shrugged, looking vaguely sheepish. "It's just, well, we've been trying to arrange a date for a while, and we weren't sure when the right time would be. So I. . . I'm glad you could come."

"Sure. I like spending time with you, especially after Harvard's released you from their claws for the summer." Emma leaned back in her seat, trying to think how to do this, and finally asked casually, "So hey, after all the research you've done, have you possibly come across any, I don't know, ghost stories associated with my place? Somebody noteworthy died there, that kind of thing? I'm, well, I'm starting to have this feeling that I'm not the only one who lives there."

Henry gave her a quick sidelong look, something wary about it. "Really? Doors opening and closing, things moved from where you left them, your garden-variety haunting sort of thing?"

"Not exactly. It's a little, um, more personal. I've had these dreams about the same guy almost ever since I moved in. It can go months between them, but then they start again, and I've had a lot of them recently. I don't _mind_ them. I don't ever feel threatened or pushed out. He's good company. I was just wondering if perhaps he had something he wanted to tell me, and there's some legend I don't know about. . ." Emma trailed off. She had heard of incubus, the male equivalent of a succubus, but this never felt like some malevolent demonic entity trying to steal her life force through unholy nightmare congress. Nor did she particularly want him to be exorcised, or go into the light, or move on, or whatever it was that ghosts did, but that wasn't fair to him. If it _was_ a real spirit, he had probably not envisioned his afterlife as being stuck in a small, old, constantly-in-renovation house in suburban Boston, making astral love to – well, to _her._ "I just thought maybe you'd picked something up through your grapevines."

"Strange guy ghost, huh?" Henry said, after a slightly too-long moment. "Not that I've heard of, no. Does he try to communicate, write things in flour, whatever?"

"No." She had a sense she might know his name when they met, but she never remembered it when she was awake. "We, um, we don't really do much talking."

Henry raised one eyebrow, but was decorous enough not to enquire (or otherwise did not want to be reminded, as any child, that his parents possessed sexual urges). She had the sense that he very much wanted to say something, but didn't, and they were quiet for several more minutes as they headed up the highway toward Salem. "So," she said, trying to restart the conversation. "What's your friend's name? We're just going to what, hang out?"

"Her name is Zelena." Henry changed lanes. "Zelena Mills. I don't know that we have a whole lot planned, but it. . . it's important. Trust me on that, all right?"

"Of course," Emma said, surprised. "To be honest, though, I thought this might have something to do with Violet."

"I'm astonished she still wants anything to do with _me_ after Uncle L – my friends in London gave her the runaround," Henry said dryly. "If it progresses beyond that, I'll let you know."

"Ah." Emma wondered if either David or Mary Margaret had a brother in London, though it seemed strange that they would never have mentioned that. Just then, she thought of the fact that, a few visits ago, she had spotted books in Henry's bedroom about caring for a parent with Alzheimer's or dementia or other memory-loss disease, and worried that the Nolans might have been diagnosed with something. When she asked Henry, he had told her he was reading them to help out a friend going through some tough times with their mother, and he wanted to sympathize and be there for them. It was the kind of thing he'd do, and she'd given it no more thought. But now, for an odd, unsettling moment, she wondered abruptly if he hadn't quite been telling the truth. If perhaps, against all logic, the person who had forgotten, and didn't even know that they had, was her.

It didn't make sense. She was fit, healthy, active, certainly no white-haired dowager knitting hats and yelling at kids to get off her lawn, knew who she was, had not been picked up by the police wandering at unseemly hours, or anything else that you would expect from someone with such a condition. Besides, why wouldn't Henry tell her if she had a long-term medical issue? Shouldn't she be seeing a doctor or a psychologist or something if she did? No, then. It couldn't be her. Surely not.

Surely not.

They crawled through the worst of the seashore traffic, arrived in Salem, and turned up a broad residential drive to the handsome white clapboard mansion at the top. Zelena Mills, whoever she was, clearly had good taste in views, and as they parked the car and got out, the front door opened a crack. Then a pretty, ginger-haired woman came tearing down the steps, caught short, and gave Henry a hug in a more sedate fashion, but her eyes kept flicking to Emma. Taking an apparent moment to compose herself, she stepped forward and offered her hand. "H-hello," she said. "I don't know if Henry mentioned me. I'm Zelena, his. . . his friend."

"Nice to meet you." Emma shook, allowing Zelena to usher them inside her spacious and well-kept house. Something about her seemed slightly familiar, though she couldn't put her finger on what, and the sensation remained, niggling in the back of her head, as they conducted an otherwise pleasant visit. She kept trying to work out what exactly Henry had meant by it being important, but couldn't, and as they were leaving in the early afternoon, couldn't hold back. When they were heading back toward Boston, she burst out, "Henry, do I know her?"

Henry's lips pursed. "I don't think I've introduced you before, no. Maybe from somewhere else?"

Confused and oddly melancholy, Emma looked out the window and didn't answer. They made it back, Henry dropped her off, and she went into her house, tempted to Google Zelena (or use one of her other, less licit tricks from her days as a bail bondsperson) and see what came up. But there was also a faint sense, for no reason she could articulate, that she shouldn't, that it was better to leave it alone, and she had to do something to get her mind off it. She changed into her grungy jeans and T-shirt, cranked some Nirvana, and went to work on the spare bedroom.

The music was loud enough, in fact, that she didn't immediately hear the knock on the door. She only heard it, brisk and insistent, in a break between tracks, and thought she saw someone looking around the front window to see if anyone was home. She wasn't expecting a delivery, though it might be some sort of traveling missionary whom she'd have to shoo off, or someone with the wrong house. She stripped off her paint-stained work gloves and strode irritably down the hall, pulling the door open with a jerk. "Yes? Can I help – "

And then, all at once, the words shriveled up and died in her throat, leaving nothing but incinerating shock. She just stared, and stared, and wondered if she had developed spontaneous narcolepsy or walked into a dream or somehow was asleep at this very moment, because it was the only remote thing that made sense.

Because it was him.

Her ghost.

For the longest, most impossible, lightning-strike stunned silence of a moment, they simply stared at each other. There wasn't much else you could do, in a situation like that.

Then, slowly at first and then all at once, like the rising sun spilling light down the shadowed hills, a dazzling smile broke and bloomed on his face. "Swan," he breathed. "At last."

"Whoa!" Emma held out a hand as he appeared set to follow this up by stepping toward her and making some kind of passionate gesture. And yes, well, their fetches or their dream-selves or some other imprint of themselves had been doing that on a fairly regular basis (either that or this was indeed the world's most demented coincidence) but that was different from the flesh-and-blood man actually turning up on her _doorstep._ "Do I – do we know each other?"

He looked at her for a long moment, up and down. Whatever he saw dimmed his bright expression slightly, but didn't snuff it altogether. "No," he agreed. "Not right now, I think. But I can – I can make you."

With that, moving just to the threshold but not across, as if he couldn't quite come in, he reached toward her, grasped her by the nape of the neck, and pulled her toward him. Then with that, he kissed her.

For half a second, Emma gave into it, closing her eyes and pressing herself into his touch, noting in the back of her head that his fingers were oddly cool. In that spellbound instant, it felt as familiar as her own skin, as waking up and starting the morning. Then sense returned, reminding her that kissing strange men who had turned up at your front door without an invitation and seemed determined to try their luck was generally a bad idea, no matter how good a lay their dream-selves were (what _even_ was going on here?) She shoved backwards, wiping her mouth. "Jesus! What the hell was that? Do I need to call the cops on you?"

"Emma, wait." He reached out for her, but still didn't come in or try to come closer, and she had an odd sense that he physically _couldn't –_ not unless she invited him. "I know you don't remember. You forgot after you left London, didn't you? Who you were, and your entire family. But if you want, you can have it back. You can have it all back."

"What?" Emma stared at him, rattled. "Henry's my family. I don't have anyone else."

He smiled wryly, tenderly, clearly holding no hard feelings for the shove. "No, lass," he said. "You have all of us."

Emma looked at him for a longer moment, thinking despite herself of Henry's odd trips to London, that reference about introducing Violet to the family, her sensation that she might know Zelena from somewhere – that she knew _him,_ on some level both vastly cosmic and atomic at once, the spaces between her stardust. But the possibility of being wrong, that he was just some delusional (if very good-looking) hobo who had been conjured up by her loneliness, if she was pulling something out of _A Beautiful Mind_ and talking to thin air, to someone who wasn't even really here – because how could he be? _Him?_ It couldn't be. Couldn't be.

"I'm sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "You really have to leave now."

"Emma, _wait –_ "

She slammed the door in his face and put the bolt in.

Emma was utterly on eggshells for the rest of the afternoon, jumping at small noises and peering out every five minutes, expecting to see him attempting alternate methods of entry, as if whatever was keeping him out the front door might not work on a window. But she didn't see him, and although she tried to focus on finishing the painting, her concentration was shot. Finally, she packed it in for the evening, stripped off her gloves, looked out again, and wondered if she should call Henry. He was capable of getting here at truly remarkable speeds, and if the non-ghost ghost _was_ going to cause trouble. . .

The neighborhood, however, was quiet, except for people out on their lawns or porches, enjoying the warm summer night. The sound of the Red Sox game on TV drifted out somebody's open window, kids ran and played in the distance. It was idyllic, green, rest and ease, and yet she was still standing here all alone, in the middle of a dark, half-finished house, watching from afar. As if she had been intended to participate in this life, but hadn't downloaded the functional software pack, the small bits and pieces that would allow her to experience this phenomenon of home, of family. The man still hadn't said anything about himself, about who he was supposed to be (then again, she hadn't given him much time before bundling him out posthaste). Just tried to kiss her, as if that was supposed to do something, and told her she could have her life back.

Unsettled, Emma got a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and wandered onto the back porch, under the heavy drape of the trees and the shirr of the crickets. She sat down on the porch swing, kicking it idly back and forth with a squeak of chains, looking out at the fence. If he _was_ stalking her, spying, whatever, this should give him an excellent opportunity to break from cover and try something, but still nothing. Until at last, her curiosity got the better of her, she looked around, and called, "Hey. Are you there?"

No answer for several moments, until she felt oddly and unspeakably bereft. As if she might have missed her chance, not even knowing if she wanted it or not, and couldn't get it back. But then there was a soft rustle in the bushes, and it appeared instead that he had only been giving her a respectful distance, but still stayed close enough to hear if she changed her mind. Gracefully and silently, looking even more heart-stopping in the dim amber light of the bug lamp, he stepped out onto her unmowed grass. "Aye," he said softly. "I'm here."

"Ah – oh." For some reason, she hadn't really thought what she would say next if he was. "The neighborhood association would probably have something to say about you skulking around people's back lawns, you know."

He grinned. "You're welcome to call those upstanding municipal gentlemen if you want, Swan."

"I should," Emma said, even as both of them clearly knew she wasn't going to do it. He remained where he was, having learned his lesson about hasty approaches, half in shadow and half in light. "Maybe I want some answers first."

"As for that, love," he said. "I think you already know them. But there's a way back, if you trust me." He held up a small vial, catching a flash of glass. "Drink this, and you'll remember."

"What, market-test your date rape drug? I don't think so."

"Believe me, if I wanted to make you do what I wanted, there are much quicker and easier ways that have nothing to do with having to convince you to take any action at all." His voice wasn't threatening in the least; almost sad. "Do you remember what mesmer is?"

"No. Was I supposed to?"

"You really have forgotten," the man said, half to himself. Then, louder, "Don't you know what Henry is? What I am?"

"An English professor?"

"Do better than that, love. You can. It's still in you. I don't believe you really want to stay this way, but it's your choice."

"How do you know Henry?" Emma demanded. "Did you do something to him?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." The man smiled again, very wryly. "I'm his father."

Emma reared back. "I think I'd remember _that._ Besides. Neal's dead. Has been for a long time."

"Aye, so he is. But I'm Henry's blood father, and even if you choose not to take this, I'm not going to leave Boston without seeing him. It's been a long time getting back. Suppose it's a side effect when you're completely outside of time and have only a faint idea how to steer home – but I made it. Stopped off and got the cedar poisoning antidote, hence why I'm not dead, and the memory potion. They've refined it, you know. Made it just in case you ever changed your mind. You don't have to keep taking it for the rest of your life. You can just drink it once now, and you'll remember."

Emma opened and shut her mouth. Three-quarters of what he had just said made absolutely no sense, and yet she couldn't instantly dismiss it. Something outside her conscious mind had caught at it, clung at it, didn't want to let it go – and yet, she was still afraid. More than that; terrified. She had a faint sense that if she _had_ forgotten, it was for a very good reason, and remembering, opening herself up to experience that magnitude of pain again, could not possibly be the wise thing to do. Throw herself like a leaf into the tempest, let herself be swept away, to give up control. Abandon all hope of a safe landing, a hidden refuge. Bare to the world.

"Let's say I listen," she said. "Who – who are you? Exactly?"

He looked up at her with the softest, gentlest, most reverent expression she had ever seen on a man's face. After a moment he said, "My name is Killian."

Emma flinched. It struck her like the arrow in Achilles' heel, the one weak spot in the invulnerable armor, where the entirety of it could come tumbling down. She knew it, then. She knew she knew that name, even if not exactly how, and knew as well that she wanted nothing so much as to know it again. He was still standing there, unmoving, so much that she could almost see the small coruscations of the wind around him, offering her everything and yet prepared to walk away if she rejected it, no matter how much it would break his own heart. It unnerved her, and yet it was so intimate, so familiar, that it would feel like sending away half of her own soul. And in knowing that, feeling that key turn, feeling that cage open, she knew that she was lost. Or perhaps, after so long, found.

Without a word, she held out her hand.

Killian hesitated, then crossed her lawn slowly, almost as if holding himself back from doing it faster and startling her. He mounted the steps, which made no sound under his feet, and handed her the vial.

"Here goes nothing," Emma mumbled, untwisting the cap and trying to see if any particular drug-like smell emanated out the top. Nothing did. It was clear, colorless, scentless. It could just be water. All the good reasons not to drink a mysterious substance handed to you by a strange man in black, babbling on about your family and other impossible things, reeled through her head one more time. She could still pour it out and crush the vial. Save herself. Slam the door.

She turned instead to Killian, meeting his eyes, as he gazed unblinkingly back at her. Whatever happened next, she wanted to be looking at him for it. Then with half a toast, she tossed the liquid back at a pull.

For a moment, nothing. Then all at once, even though the night stayed dark, her mind lit up, doors and windows bursting open in the glow, as she was struck with the tidal wave and carried along in the rush, as figures sketched themselves into life and burst off the page, as all the missing pieces filled themselves in and there were no more empty spaces and no more pain and no more, no more. Until she was blazing like a lighthouse, couldn't breathe, for an instant was back in one of the first nights after she had gotten home from London, lying in bed and hurting too badly to sleep, praying with all her might to forget, to make it easier. Falling asleep with the TV on, trying to drown out the cacophony in her head. Knowing with every morning that while the pain might have lessened, what had been washed away could never be replaced – but now it _was,_ and he was – he was _here –_ it wasn't – _it wasn't –_

Slowly, she lifted her head. Tears overflowed her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. _"Killian?"_

His answering smile was none too steady either. "Miss me?"

Emma made a sound half a laugh and half a sob, and flung herself across the porch swing into his arms, clawing at him, hauling him half on top of her, kissing every inch of him she could reach – mouth and cheek and temple and nose and chin and jaw and ear, as he laughed even as she tasted salt, as they settled into a tangle of limbs and she stroked his untidy dark hair and said, _"How – ?"_ and then decided she didn't care and kissed him again, pressing her cheek against his, nuzzling him. "The cage – Zelena and Henry said it couldn't ever – "

"You couldn't get me out, love," he said, between further kisses. "I was the only one who could do that for myself. And at last – I had to."

Emma hummed in answer, head against his shoulder as his arms came around her, as he held her, until she wanted both to take him to bed for the next week and likewise couldn't wait another instant to see her family again. With shaking hands, she dug in her pocket for her phone, still lying against Killian's chest, as she dialed Henry's number.

He answered, sounding alarmed. "Hey, Mom. It's late, are you okay?"

"Y-yeah." Emma sniffed. "Please come over here right now. Fast. W – I'm in the back yard."

"Mom?"

"Just come over. You'll understand when you get here."

Henry hung up, clearly wondering if something had happened to further unbalance her, and Killian winked at her. "Should have given the lad a heads up."

"Not really something you can break over the phone." Emma giggled, wiping her eyes. "And I want to see the look on his face."

Five minutes later, as proof that Henry had dropped everything and blitzed over at vampire speed, he appeared around the side of the house, prepared for the worst – and then saw Emma and Killian lying in each other's arms on the porch swing, having refused to be separated by more than a millimeter the entire time. His jaw almost hit the ground, and he actually reached up to rub his eyes. "Am I – what the – _what the – ?"_

Killian sat up, Emma still snuggled into his shoulder. "Good evening, lad."

Henry stood there staring at them for another few moments, then raced up the porch and threw himself into his parents' arms, the lot of them sinking into a group hug and rocking back and forth, uttering small sounds of disbelief and grief and utter, transcendent, shattering joy. "How," Henry kept croaking, it seeming to be the only word he was capable of. "Dad, how?"

At the sound of that word, the first time Henry had had a chance to call him that, for him to hear it, the look that crossed Killian's face was beyond all description. "It's a long story," he managed at last. "I'll be sure to tell you on the plane to London."

"The rest of the family doesn't know you're back yet?" Henry looked affronted, and then, slowly, a matching grin spread across his face. "Oh, this is going to be _fun."_

* * *

Henry refused to leave that night except for a brief interlude to run home and pack a bag so they could get the first flight to London the next morning, and Emma and Killian went into her room together, shut the door, crawled into bed, and made love as if the world was ending – or perhaps, beginning. Not as if everything was falling in a fiery apocalypse, for that had already happened. As if the assault had stopped, the floodwaters receded, the sun rising on the first day of ever after, the world somehow spinning on. As if they had taken the worst it had to offer and lived, as if they were finally united, meshed, woven into one, as he moved slowly above her and she wrapped her legs around his, as she could not get him deep enough and she could not stand for him to stop kissing her, browsing, worshiping. It was, obviously, the first time she as a human had had sex with a vampire, and it was definitely world-changing, but as she lay with her head on his chest and figured they would have time to actually sleep on the plane, she couldn't hold back. "Killian, I'm. . . I'm still mortal, you know. That hasn't changed. Even if now I remember you, even if we can have some time together, it won't. . . it can't be as much as we want."

"Aye, well." His fingers traced light circles under her breast. "If that's the case, I'll accept whatever we do have as the greatest gift I could ever be given. But I have one more idea."

"Mmm?" She could see her greying hair spread out on the pillows, such a contrast against his own ink-dark head. She didn't want to get her hopes up. "What's that?"

"The scale," he said. "The Osiris scale. You're still the _universus,_ you can still use it. Remember, it balances. It can take someone's eternal life away from them – or return it."

"What? No!" She sat almost upright. "Killian. . . if it didn't work, if it took away your immortality instead of giving mine back, you'd die. You're over three hundred, you'd just crumble into dust. I can't take that risk. Not after I just got you back."

"I know," he said steadily. "And you'll remember that I myself was quite convinced that any proper verdict on my character would send me to the demons to be devoured. Now. . . well, I don't know how to explain it, but I think it might not be the case. I'm willing to take the risk, love, if you are."

Emma didn't know how to answer. She wanted to say that they should play it safe, that they should take whatever few decades they were certain to have, rather than gambling it all on this. Even if it meant growing old and dying while he remained forever young, it would still be something. To ask for more, to ask for this. . . if she was wrong, if he was, if the scales took from him what it already had from her. . . to see him free from the cage just to die in her arms, any chance of any future ruined, the inexorable judgment of those terrible things. . .

But she had just made the greatest and most desperate wager of all, had trusted, had drunk the memory potion. And here he was, in her arms. Safe. Real. She'd let him go, knowing it was forever, and yet. And yet. There was still, even if nothing else at all, tonight. A gift she could never have imagined, and could never in her life be grateful enough for.

"I'll think about it," she said, lifting his hand to her mouth and kissing it. "And. . . Killian?"

"Aye?"

She wanted to say it, then. Here in this moment of quiet and quilts and somnolence and sex, naked in the dark, soft and open, no secrets between them. But the thought, again, that it might be the last time, the last thing, the goodbye, closed her throat. Not quite yet. Not until he was safe. And so, even knowing he was a vampire and he didn't sleep at night anyway, wanting to keep the world away for a little while longer, she closed his fingers and said, "Sleep."

They got the first red-eye out of Logan International the next morning, Henry having swigged a bottle of ONeg for the journey and Killian loathingly doing the same (still tasted like raw chicken juice, in his opinion, and Henry promised he'd make sure they had a proper feed when they got to London). Both the vampires were drowsy in the daylight hours, if not knocked out; they were both too strong for that, though they did end up sleeping most of the way. Emma looked at them tenderly, caught between joy and apprehension, wondering what the reunion was going to be like. Did they hold a grudge against her for forgetting, even knowing it was the only way she could carry on at all? Henry had phoned Zelena and told her to get to London as soon as possible, so she might be on her way right now as well. Emma couldn't stop chewing it over. If she stayed mortal, would she regret rejoining the supernatural world? What if – what if – what if.

They landed at Heathrow at last, in a long green-gold summer evening, and Henry and Killian woke up, got through customs with only a little mesmer this time (Killian still did not have an actual passport) before the three of them got a cab to Russell Square. Regina had stayed in London rather than going back to Boston, giving up her position as vampire queen and working with Robin Locksley on a supernatural history project, a professional association that had quickly turned into something more, and since nobody wanted to sell Killian's old house, she had been living there instead. As well, Henry told them, Arthur remained Potentate, but the change in his behavior was astonishing. He had released his wife Guinevere from the mesmer thrall he had had her under, made new laws for supernatural-human relations, improved the lives of ordinary vampires, fixed the damage he had done by all his power-grubbing, and reached out to the werewolves for community relations – an endeavor in which he had been admirably assisted by the Alpha of the London Pack, who had likewise done spades for wolves across the city, England, and abroad through means of his own blog on Fangd. Teeth and Tails were now almost entirely at peace for the first time in memory, tentatively working to befriend each other and help out their human neighbors as well, and it was all thanks to Arthur and Liam.

"Aye," Killian said, fairly glowing with pride. "That doesn't surprise me to hear. Christ. I can't wait to see him."

"I hope he doesn't have a heart attack," Henry said, only half-joking. "He's no spring chicken either. Though on the other hand, that would probably be Anita."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. They're. . . you know." Henry raised a teasing eyebrow. "A thing."

"Ah," Killian murmured, looking both pleased and intimidated. "So I see."

Emma squeezed his hand for moral support as the cab pulled up in Russell Square, they paid the fare, and got out. It felt like just a few days since she'd last been here, leaving with Will to go to the airport, and she shook that old memory away. The rest of the family must have known it was important, having been ordered to come to Regina's house ASAP, and she wondered what they thought it was. Time to find out.

With a communal deep breath, they headed up the steps, knocked, and waited, Killian dodging behind Emma and Henry in nervousness. Then after a moment, the door cracked. "Yes?"

Henry cleared his throat. "Hi, Mom. I – uh. I have some guests."

There was a very long pause. Then the door jerked all the way open, as it was hard to tell which of them stupefied Regina more – Emma standing there with her memories, three years after she'd made the decision to exile herself permanently, or, well. Him. Her supposedly lost-forever, stupid, stubborn, impossible brother. She wasn't a screamer, so her mouth just opened very wide and stayed that way. Finally, a croaking, _"What?"_ emerged instead.

"Good evening, sis," Killian said, with a crooked grin. "Didn't quite get rid of me after all."

Regina stared, snapped her mouth shut, kept staring, opened her mouth again, and then finally shook her head. "I should have imagined there's nothing on earth _that_ powerful. You – you _idiot,_ it's been _three years!"_

"Aye. It wasn't merely a matter of a journey from point A to point B, you know. But I made it, so you can either stand there snarking at me, or – "

Whatever else Killian had been going to say was, for the best, cut off as Regina stepped outside and, without another word, hugged him so hard that even his immortal ribs creaked. His own eyes rather bright, he did the same, looking touched, at least until she stepped back and slapped him smartly across the face. With a brusque gesture to follow her, she vanished inside.

"Good to know I'm still drowning in sisterly sympathy," Killian remarked, one eyebrow cocked, as he touched his cheek; the sting must have already faded, if he'd felt it at all. But he couldn't stop grinning as the three of them traipsed inside, down the hall, toward the familiar kitchen at the back. Hesitated a final moment, and crossed the threshold.

There was a moment of utter silence from everyone else – Zelena, Robin, the Nolans, Will, Liam, and Anita – as they stared. Then the place went, for lack of a better word, mental.

There was no chance of any sort of a normal evening, and Emma wouldn't have wanted it any other way. She couldn't hug everyone fast enough, she couldn't even get her tongue around anything coherent, she didn't even know what to say, if this was just a visit and she couldn't stay. Didn't know what to promise them, but for once, she didn't, didn't care. She just wanted to take this moment, and keep it in a snowglobe, small and perfect, forever.

Liam let out a roar when he saw his brother, half staggered, until they were briefly afraid that they _had_ given him a heart attack, but instead he just hugged Killian for about the next twenty minutes while they grasped each other's arms and clapped each other on the back and shook their heads and grinned through tears. Will finally got his turn, stepped up, smacked Killian the same way Regina had, said, "You absolute _prat,_ I am _never_ forgivin' you that little stunt," and then rather ruined the effect of those words by grabbing Killian by the collar and kissing the stuffing out of him, before looking at Emma guiltily. "Sorry. I'll smack 'im again to make up for that."

Emma couldn't stop her grin. "No need. I think he got the point."

Will shook his head, kissed Killian on the cheek, shook his head, kissed Killian on the other cheek, shook his head, and sat down, looking completely dazed but utterly and impossibly happy. The Nolans must have likewise booked it out of Boston when Henry had called, because they were looking distinctly jet-lagged, but just as happy, and David dug out some rum and poured a toast for everyone, even the vampires (though they spit theirs out after a sip, except for Killian, who did not believe in wasting good rum no matter what). Then someone tapped Emma on the shoulder. "I. . . do you remember me too?"

She glanced around to see Zelena, who had been hanging back from the general euphoric chaos surrounding Killian's return; after all, she likewise was not sure where her place was in the family, or if Emma still wanted to give her a chance. She glanced down, twisting her fingers together. "Yesterday, when Henry brought you to visit. . . it was the first time I'd seen you since you forgot, and. . . there were times when I almost thought you might. . ."

"I remember," Emma said quietly. "You too."

Zelena flushed slightly, a hard thing for a vampire to manage, but made herself look up again. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I. . . no." She didn't know what tomorrow was, not yet, but as before, she still had this. One pearl on a string, one more, one priceless gift. "No, I don't."

* * *

They gave themselves one more night, just in case. They didn't want to assume they knew the future, or what would come of trying the scale one last time, and they didn't want to waste whatever they did have. So they went upstairs – not to the master bedroom, as that was Regina's now, but to the bedroom at the very top of the house, their own secluded eyrie. Regina had made over and modernized much of the place, and it looked beautiful, but she had left this one untouched, almost as if she hoped Killian might turn up again one day and have a part of it still look as he had left it. She'd even put the phonograph player in there, which Killian regarded with a snort of amusement before turning to Emma. "You know," he said. "I might sell it after all. I've had my fill of living in the past."

She didn't answer, just stepped into his arms and kissed him as they walked back toward the bed, tumbling onto the covers and undressing each other, taking their time about everything, every touch and caress, every kiss, every imprint – for better or worse, she would always remember this. There was no escape hatch of forgetting if things went wrong tomorrow, and she lost him again. No way to make it safer. Nothing to lose but everything.

They moved slowly together, his thrusts considered and measured and deep, hips rolling in matching rhythm, her hand on the back of his neck. Eventually she urged him down to taste her, and he resisted at first, but finally nipped lightly at the side of her throat and took his time even more than before, as she felt the quick, bright sting of his fangs and then the hazy, shuddering pleasure of the feed. Combined with his movements inside her, gentle at first and then harder, she surrendered utterly to the depths of it, to the delight of him. Almost told him she didn't want to risk it, that they could still have a good life with her as a human. Had had more than enough of tests and trials that kept him away from her.

But he believed. At last. After centuries of hatred and rage and darkness, after damage and violence and guilt and loathing himself more than anything imaginable, Killian finally believed that when he placed himself in the balance of the Osiris scale, he would not be instantly damned to the worst hell there was, only as he deserved. _You couldn't get me out, love. I was the only one who could do that for myself._ That instead of being torn down, he – and she – would be lifted up, that they would fly. And in the end, as frightened as she was, she couldn't deny him the chance, at last, to find out if that was so.

They slept, curled up together, fingers linked, her head on his shoulder, the quilts tossed over them both. They hadn't told anyone about the plan, and Emma wondered if they should, if they had just welcomed Killian back one day and the next he was actually dead. But at the same time, it was unspoken between them that they didn't want anyone else's opinions or advice on it, that it was their wager to make, their risk to run. Their own step into whatever eternity awaited.

Therefore, when they woke, got dressed, and headed out, they just said it was for a quick walk. It was daylight, so there would be very few people at the witan offices; just a skeleton human staff, as opening hours weren't until the nighttime. The scales were locked away in a secure vault with the carefully preserved Book of the Dead and other artifacts of a sensitive nature; _Liber incarcerati_ and the rest of the especially dangerous collections from Gold's mansion had been catalogued for posterity, but not permitted to survive. The supernatural world had had enough and then some of megalomaniac plays for absolute power, and as long as those things existed, they would be sufficient temptation for some bored Fangd troll to try to get his teeth into them. It looked as if the witan, with a reformed Arthur at its head, was genuinely serious about trying to clean up the lingering damage caused by hundreds of years of wars and petty rivalries, and Emma admired them for that. Better hope that retrieving the scale didn't make them think there had been some large-scale bank robbery, and thus jump to any unfortunate reactions.

For that matter, she had thought they might have to run a bureaucratic gauntlet to get the scales, but it was easier than expected. She and Killian had both become rather famous in the vampire world for different reasons; them strolling in here together was a double white elephant sighting, and the drones were suitably flustered. They were thus willing to permit them access to the scales, if only for thirty minutes, which certainly should be enough time one way or the other, and Emma rather disingenuously insisted that as a human, there was nothing she could do with them anyway. So it was that they stepped into the windowless chrome-walled room, with only her reflection fractured away down the endless mirrors; to look at it, one would think she was alone in here, even with Killian standing next to her. Which, if this went wrong, she would be.

Pushing that thought away, Emma crossed the floor to the scales, which stood atop a pedestal, swinging gently even though the air in the room was still. "Well," she said. "Last time, with Nimue, it was blood. So I suppose we should. . . do that again?"

"Aye, then." Killian looked intimidated, but not frightened. He lifted his hand to his mouth and lightly bit his finger, letting a drop fall into one of the dishes, then took hers and did the same with the other one. There was a faint, distant sound as if a bell had rung, but no other indication that anything had happened, and they stood there tensely, expecting to disappear in a flash such as Emma and Nimue had, but they didn't. It was better than him suddenly disintegrating in a pile of ash, but Emma didn't let her guard down. Waiting. . . waiting. . . but still nothing.

"I don't think it's working," she said, the weight of desperate disappointment heavy in her stomach. "I was a vampire last time, I had immortality to balance against Nimue's. With me as a human and you as a vampire, we're not matching weights, it's not going to – "

Whatever else she had been going to say was cut off as two things happened. The first was that the scale began to rock back and forth madly, almost pitching itself off its plinth, as a burning white light began to pour from nowhere, drowning both of them in its blinding glow. There was a sensation as if a vast door was swinging open, a movement somewhere once beyond the boundaries of the ordinary world, and Emma knew in an instant that if she went through it, her immortality would be restored. And it might have been that simple, if not for the fact that at that moment, Killian collapsed.

"Killian!" She whirled toward him desperately, seeing faint cracks start to run along his skin like a dropped porcelain plate, as if he would fully come to pieces in another instant. He was wrong, he must have been wrong somehow – he hadn't done enough, but how could he ever do more, the scales had taken his life and now he was about to –

"No!" he managed, trying to beckon her toward the light. "Emma, love, go! Take it! With your family, with Henry – you got to see me one last time, that's all anyone could ask for – "

Emma hesitated agonizingly, staring at it, knowing the choice of futures that lay stark before her – immortality without Killian, or mortality with him. No more, no less. Could take one or the other, freely and completely. Not merely a matter of forgetting because she couldn't stand it, not just fleeing blindly. Would have to commit herself full-throated into one, and abandon all hope of the other, forever, the poet in the inferno. No more. No going back.

Zero hour.

Time to go.

She turned and began to run.

* * *

She was still herself, and yet she wasn't, and somehow the years were shrinking and twisting down, further and further, and then it was stranger and smaller, and so was she – she was very small, a baby, staring up at the world that went on forever above her and trying to make curious sense of it in the way that children do, and then there was a face above her, two. Smiling faces, lifting her up, cuddling her, admiring her. _"That's our beautiful girl,"_ the man said. _"Smile for Mama, Emma,"_ and a camera flashed in her mother's hands, and she was passed between them again, warm and wanted, safe, boneless in their arms. They kissed her nose and her cheeks and she giggled furiously, churning her chubby legs. _"We love you so much,"_ the woman said this time. _"We love you so much, Emma. Don't forget that. Don't ever forget."_

 _I'm sorry,_ Emma wanted to say back, _I had to._ Vaguely she wondered how she could ever have remembered this anyway, when it was so far back beyond words, beyond conscious thought or knowledge of herself, when she couldn't have been older than a few months. Before Nimue had come, before Snow and James had fought to save her but died nonetheless, because there was no way two humans could ever match the Queen of the Damned, before she had been cast out to start her so very long life as an orphan. She had never heard her parents' voices until this moment, clear as if they were standing directly beside her. She didn't even know or care what it was, why it was. _I love you. I love you too. I'm sorry._

 _Go,_ the man urged her, his eyes looking directly into her own. _It's all right now, Emma. It's done. Go home._

She reached for them, nonetheless. A grown woman's hand, not a baby's, a woman's hand still clawing through the shimmer of space and time and something as thin and simple as tissue paper, trying to touch. A brush of something that might have been their hands against her own, both of them reaching for her in turn. They held onto her for that split second, warm and real, and looking into their eyes, she was weightless, at peace. Atoned.

And then, gently as falling spring rain, they brought her hand to their lips, kissed it, and let go.

* * *

Emma was lying with her eyes closed, and her head in someone's lap, and she knew enough to be aware that she should be very sore indeed, because she just had plunged out of the sky, miles and miles, and it could not help but hurt when she hit the ground, especially at her age. She wasn't, oddly, but she also didn't want to open her eyes and look to see who it was just yet. It couldn't be Killian, because she couldn't possibly have reached him in time, when she turned away from the blazing white door of the heavens to run to him. He had already been breaking, cracking, shattering, and he had seared under her touch, and he must be gone. She had given up eternity to choose him, and then, in all the brutal and terrible ironies, of someone who was supposed to have nothing but time, it was too late.

She felt very strange, however. Different. Lighter. Stronger. Not the way she had as a human – instead, rather, the way she only just remembered being as a vampire. But nor did she feel like one of those. There wasn't that ever-present thirst for blood, controlled but never entirely vanquished, that razor's-edge of a hunter's soul, that innate distrust of sunlight and daytime and all the other old instincts embedded deep in a Teeth's psyche. When she ran her tongue along her own teeth, no fangs met her explorations. She wasn't one – but she didn't feel ordinary either.

"Emma," a voice said above her head. "Bloody hell, love, wake up. Please wake up."

A jolt of surprise went through her, pulling her eyes open as if with fishhooks. She wasn't in the windowless chrome cubby, underground at the witan offices in London, their last port of call. Instead, as she took in the pale blue sky above, the grass below, and the old stone ruins, she recognized it with a second jolt as Camelot, exactly where she had been with Nimue. _The last place she was mortal, and the last place I was immortal._ No sorcerer's battle now, no dark and stormy night. Nothing but the faint, clear sheen of sunlight – and something else. As her eyes opened further, she saw that she – that they – were sitting in the middle of a veritable sea of pink roses. The very ones that Nimue had used as her trademark, which before had been sinister and threatening, something so beautiful twisted to such a dark end. Not so now. They bloomed across the broken castle, across the field, to the edge of the trees, fragrant and rich and full. _Because, at last, Arthur has truly become king again. The darkness is defeated, and the world goes on._

She turned around.

"Well, I'm not sparkling, I'm afraid," Killian Jones said with a wry grin. "But I trust you'll excuse the deficiency."

Emma stared at him. Put out her hands convulsively and touched him to make sure he was actually there, that this wasn't some tormenting vision, another illusory dream. He was, in fact, real. Solid. Uncracked, unbroken, alive. Not breathing, because vampires didn't need to, but smiling as if he couldn't stop. Not caring about any other explanations just yet, about anything else in the world, she seized him by the collar and kissed him flat onto his back among the roses.

He laughed again, this time in surprise, grinning up at her. "Take it easy, lass. You're going to have to get used to your new strength again, after three years without it. Might accidentally break something on this old man, eh?"

"What?" Emma croaked. "I'm not a vampire, I don't – "

"You're not," Killian agreed. "But you are an immortal, in the purest sense, the way Merlin was – as far as I can reckon. You have preternatural strength and speed and the rest of it, all the enhanced abilities you did as a vampire. No blood-drinking, though. No aversion to sunlight or silver, none of that. I suppose in the end, you've done everything Gold wanted. You overcame all vampire limitations, to the point you transcended the very species."

"I – what?" Emma looked at her hands in disbelief. They were no longer lined and aged, and when she grabbed a hank of her hair and switched it around for examination, all the grey had gone, leaving only blonde. Touching her face confirmed the same. She wasn't forever twenty-eight, the way she had been before – just a few years older. Maybe forever thirty-one. And perhaps in the end, not forever. Having seen the true, terrible concept of everlasting, unceasing life, she wasn't sure she wanted to be there at the final curtain for the entire universe. But until then, as short as a day or as long as half a thousand years, she would have all the time she wanted. All the time _they_ wanted, together.

"I don't understand," she whispered, forehead pressing against Killian's. "I gave up my chance at immortality to try to save you."

He touched her chin. "Perhaps that made all the difference."

Emma couldn't answer immediately, delirious with joy, pulling him back for another kiss, as they rolled in the grass and giggled. Then she said, "Do you want to stay in London? It _is_ your house, I'm sure Regina would understand if you wanted it back, and as an Old One, I know it's hard for you to change territory, especially after you've lived there so long – "

"No," Killian said. "It's hers now. Hers and, I hope, Robin's. It's time for me to let it go. That was the place I hid from the world for a hundred years. It's done its job. She can make something new of it. I'll come back to visit Liam and the others, of course, but my home is with you – you and Henry – in Boston." He paused, suddenly shy. "If you'll have me. I know it might be – "

Emma interrupted him with yet another kiss, which neither of them were in a hurry to pull away from. The thought that she could do this as many times as she liked now, that she would never have to stop, filled her with impossible and unbounded delight, as if it could be a thousand times, a thousand more, and each would still feel like the first. She said, "What do you think?"

"Well." Killian ducked his head, scratching behind his ear. "I had rather hoped, but I still didn't want to presume. Bad form, you know."

Emma giggled. "Are you any good at hanging drywall? There's still a lot of work to finish on our house."

"Abysmal." Killian shrugged. "Home improvement does not rank highly on an Old One's list of talents, I'm afraid. But you can be quite sure that I'm willing to learn."

Emma touched his nose with hers. "Will it bother you if I eat a chocolate bar in front of you now and again? Now that I can live forever and not have to do it on a liquid diet."

"My darling." Killian's eyes crinkled. "I will buy you the entire Godiva store if it would make you happy."

Emma didn't care about the Godiva store, enjoyable though it was for it to be once more an option. She snuggled into him again, his arms solidly around her, until at last a cloud passed over the sun, the afternoon was fading, and they knew it was time to get home, to tell their family, to begin their future. To leave this quiet, magical corner, deep in the forest of Wales, and return to reality, to all the days and nights to come, to embrace the fullness of time and no longer watch, nor fear, its passing. To wake up, to walk out the door, to matter, to love. To live. And so, at last, safe, she turned to him and breathed, "I love you."

He just kept smiling back at her, marveling at the simple and perfect wonder of it. "To cop a phrase," he said, "I know. And, Emma Swan, I love you too. So very, bloody much."

They got to their feet, and took hands. Descended the hill from Camelot with its roses in full bloom, the summer sun falling rich gold through the trees, the warmth soft as a kiss in the wind. No more cold, no more pain. Only them, and the open road before them.

And so, starting to walk, they went to wait for a train.

**THE END**


	31. Eternitatem

_Special extra bit/epilogue since **aloha-4-ever** requested it. As I've said, I would love to revisit this universe in one-shots, so here you go. This is probably as far into the future as I'll take them, but there may be other parts from the past - those probably will just be posted on tumblr, however. But this one goes here, so enjoy!_

* * *

It was the night that they finished work on their house that they decided to get married. It happened rather by accident. Not that they hadn't thought about it. They had been living the past few years in a blissful cloud of happiness and home improvement, affording Emma the priceless opportunity to see a formidable Old One up to his elbows in paint samples for the master bedroom, swearing and jumping six feet straight up when the fancy new showerhead in the bathroom switched on when he wasn't expecting it, and mowing the lawn (at eleven PM, doubtless to the delight of their neighbors) so fast that they barely had time to dial the homeowners' association to complain. She'd almost wondered, or feared, if Killian would get bored with it, the everyday (or rather, night) mundanities of being with her, after how long he had lived and what he must have done and seen – and while Boston was a fun and historical city with plenty of places for him to feel at home, it wasn't London, where he had lived for so many centuries. What if it wasn't enough? What if _she_ wasn't enough?

Such fears, however, had been slowly and thoroughly dispelled over the course of the rebuild – not just the house, but _them,_ both together and individually. Now that Emma was immortal again, they never had to worry about running out of time, and so they had taken it slow. Killian had done his best to adapt to a semi-daylight schedule for her sake, though with Henry and the wider supernatural society of Boston to consider, it was just as much Emma returning to her old nocturnal habits. Henry himself had to keep human hours insofar as his job went, though he slept almost the entire weekend straight through to make up for having to be out in the sun all week. That meant Saturday and Sunday were days that Emma and Killian had to themselves – whether to go out for a hand-in-hand stroll along the waterfront, or along the Freedom Trail (Killian loudly scoffing at various historical inaccuracies, but falling in instant love upon first sight of the USS _Constitution_ in Navy Yard) or to try out one of the several new Teeth restaurants in the city. Other times they went to human ones, though this wasn't as much fun since Killian could only drink water (and in one amusing episode, their waiter had brought them a basket of garlic bread as an appetizer, causing him to flee the table in a fit of sneezing). They hadn't quite dared going to Ruby's diner in Dorchester, even though Ruby and Mulan had both met Killian and liked him. The rough-and-tough biker wolf types who frequented the place, upon getting any whiff of Killian's identity and past, would probably disagree.

Thus, it was one of those nights – Saturday, in fact, early summer, long and lazy, where they were curled up on the back porch together, too tired to go out after finally finishing the last bit of remodeling, packing up, vacuuming, and dusting to make the house complete. Emma was drowsing happily against Killian's shoulder, listening to the crickets, until she finally said, "So what are we going to do next, now that we're finally done? Take up the auto body business? Make an immortal bucket list? Get married?"

Killian tensed beneath her, and she blinked, pushing herself upright to look at him. "What? Did I say something wrong? It was just a joke, we don't have to if you don't want – "

"Actually, I – " He swallowed. "I was in fact thinking myself, now that this bloody project is finished. . . now that we have a proper home to live in together, one we made ourselves, I very much wanted – only if you did, of course – to make it. . . well, official."

There was a long pause as they stared at each other. Neither of them could quite believe it – indeed, Emma had couched it in such a casual, offhand manner precisely so if he reacted badly, she could claim it was nothing. But as their eyes met, as they both realized it in each other, they slowly began to smile, then blink back tears. Until, she never having been much of one for tradition and not being able to wait a moment more to do this, to stop being afraid, to trust and begin a very long hereafter with the man she loved, Emma took his hand. "So, Killian Jones," she said, unable to hold back her watery grin. "Will you marry me?"

Killian looked at her, then reached out, pulled her on top of him, and kissed her senseless. When they finally broke (not necessarily for air, as he didn't need it and she could go without it) panting and half off the porch swing and giggling like teenagers, deliriously and utterly happy, he stroked a lock of hair out of her eyes and said, "Emma Swan, my love, my darling, my own, whatever do you think?"

* * *

And with that done (and Killian insisting on buying a ring for Emma, because he wanted her to have it) they realized they had absolutely not a sweet, solitary, merciful clue about how to plan a vampire wedding.

The guest list was obvious: Henry and Violet, David, Mary Margaret, and their son Jimmy, Zelena, Regina and Robin, Will and Elsa, Liam and Anita, Ruby and Mulan, and maybe even Arthur if he could swing it. It wasn't as if the vampire potentate usually had time to pop by private celebrations, but after all the work he had done with Liam and the friendship he had continued to maintain with Henry, they thought they would at least extend the invitation. After some discussion, they also decided to invite Lily, Zelena's other daughter and Emma's blood sister, who had likewise been working on building a relationship with her. The celebrations would be held in Boston, so the London half of the family would fly out, and an ideal vampire honeymoon destination was not the hot and sunny beach paradise favored by most newlyweds, so that was a bit tricky. Emma jokingly suggested a haunted castle in Transylvania, only for Killian to give her that Look he customarily employed when he thought she was being ridiculous but was too polite to say so. He allowed that they could of course go to the tropics if she wanted, but as Emma did not intend to spend half of her honeymoon without her husband, that was out.

After they had called and shared the news with the delighted Henry (on Monday, when they knew he'd be awake) their next step was to consult the Fangd classifieds, as supernatural-friendly event planners often advertised on the site. The problem was that almost all of them catered specifically to either vampires or werewolves, and as the family was very decidedly mixed, Emma and Killian realized that they were going to have to make most of it up. Googling "vampire wedding" was not much help, as they got a bunch of Corpse Bride-themed cosplays and/or goths in black leather (or worse, _Twilight)._ They didn't want a big or expensive production, but they did want something more special than ten minutes in a county office before a justice of the peace. Emma thought of her first wedding, which had basically been exactly that, a day after her eighteenth birthday with Henry in a baby carrier and Neal fresh out of jail, still promising to change. This was different in every way, and so they weren't just doing that again.

The choice of venue was the next question. A church was out for obvious reasons, and neither of them were particularly religious anyway. An outdoor location would probably be leery about renting for an all-night ceremony and party, and they didn't want to fight with the bums for a city park. Finally Emma had a stroke of genius, called up the _Constitution_ museum, and asked if they could arrange to rent the ship for a private evening wedding, followed by a reception elsewhere (which would be a white tent in their backyard). It took some haggling, but she mentioned that Killian was a wounded Royal Navy veteran (well, he was) and it would mean a great deal to him to get married on the deck of the old wooden ship. Money wasn't really an issue, so she hinted that they would be willing to pay handsomely for the privilege, and at last got a date nailed down: three months from now at the beginning of fall, when the tourist numbers started tailing off, just before Henry and Robin had to go back to teaching at their respective universities, and far enough away from any full moons to avoid inconveniencing the werewolves. The look on Killian's face when she told him just about broke her damn heart.

With the time and the place fixed, they mailed formal invitation cards to the family, had a joyous hours-long Skype call with Liam, and decided at this point that there was only real solution to the wedding planning madness: bring in Mary Margaret. She was thrilled to be able to help, booking flower arrangements and musicians and an open bar for the human and werewolf guests easily enough, but ran into some difficulties over the cake, catering, and drinks for the vampires. Killian declared he was going to have a piece of his own damn wedding cake no matter what, even if he had to spit most of it out, or otherwise he would just eat it, he being old enough that he could probably choke it down just the once. Then Henry turned up to inform them of a truly wonderful invention: a champagne-style blood replacement drink produced by the same company that made ONeg, precisely for these kinds of supernatural special events. It was technically named OMan, evidently supposed to be used in the sense of "oh man, this is so exciting!" but as nobody had said "oh man, this is so exciting!" unironically since a sitcom in the sixties, Henry rather brilliantly dubbed it "Chompagne" instead. He ordered an entire case, and also mentioned that he knew a fellow nerd at MIT who had invented a vampire-compatible camera, so they should even be able to hire a photographer. The pavilion was scheduled for setup in their backyard, and Emma and Killian had already asked Regina, in her capacity as vampire queen of Boston, to officiate – she technically still was, she just did most of the work remotely from London and relied on Sidney to see that it got where it needed to go. The union would be registered with the supernatural government, but they would still have to run along to Boston City Hall and pick up a human marriage license too at some point.

Seeing that almost all the other miscellanies were taken care of, Emma turned her attention to the one thing she definitely had to pick herself: the dress. This was such a daunting prospect that she finally made a phone call, waited tensely as it rang, and when it was picked up, explained the situation. Then she said hesitantly, "So, I was wondering. Do you want to help me with it? With the understanding, of course, that you can't go psychotic on any shop assistants, or be Mother of Bridezilla, or anything like that."

Zelena was quiet for a long moment. She sniffed hard, clearly trying to keep herself together, after all the times she had said she wanted just this with Emma – the kind of thing mothers and daughters were supposed to do, had been working hard to unlearn her twisted, selfish view of how they should. Then she said, "Yes, darling. I would absolutely love to."

With Zelena posing as her sister, Emma thus began her tour of the bridal boutiques of the suburban Boston area, where she was greeted by several impossibly perky, toothy women with measuring tapes around their necks, who spoke in verbal capitals and liberal italics and were determined to make her Special Day Totally _Perfect!_ It got a little dicey as they were bringing out some of their rack dresses for her to try on, Emma adamant that she didn't need a costly and time-consuming custom creation, and asked how she had met her husband-to-be. "I broke into his house in London thinking he might be a powerful supernatural murderer, since he's a three-hundred-year-old vampire" was not an answer she could give to Linda and Annie of Michael's Bridal, in a beige chain-store shopping development in Brookline (though depending on their tastes in entertainment, they might be delighted). So Emma just said she had met him on a business trip to the UK, which was basically the truth, and caused them to coo admiringly over the fact that he was _British._

Zelena rolled her eyes, clearly physically pained to hold back her snarky remarks, but managed to behave herself as they finally settled on Emma's dress – a simple, strapless white satin A-line with a beaded bodice and a full-length princess veil, which had been at Zelena's insistence. Emma had refused it at first, feeling self-conscious, and since if Zelena had her way, she would have bought the fanciest, most overdecorated, puffy, lacy, beady, diamond-y, sequin-y abomination of a dress in the shop. She was talked out of that, but remained unyielding on the veil, and when Emma put it on in the mirror (Zelena carefully staying out of the way so Linda and Annie wouldn't notice that she didn't have a reflection) she fell in immediate, ravishing love with it. Upon hearing that her last name was Swan, the ladies also managed to find a tiny rhinestone tiara to hold it, with two swans with necks interlocking in the shape of a heart, and were so determined for Emma to have it that they threw it in with the dress and veil for free. They carefully packaged everything up in tissue paper and white boxes, wished her the happiest of lives with her delightfully British and certainly totally normal husband, and Emma, surprising herself, hugged both of them. She was just learning again how delightful it was to be friends with women.

By the time this was all done, it was just a few weeks until the wedding, and the family would be arriving soon. Regina had offered to put everyone up in her Beacon Hill mansion, which she had sublet to Sidney, but the wolves – Liam, Anita, and Will, therefore Elsa as well – did not feel entirely comfortable there, and had politely opted to make their own hotel arrangements instead. Arthur had sent his regrets, saying he couldn't get enough time off to travel out, but he had sent a huge bouquet of flowers and an invitation to visit his ski chalet in Switzerland that winter for a belated honeymoon. So Emma, Killian, and Henry went to Logan on the Monday evening before the wedding, which was on a Saturday, to meet the rest of the family, who were arriving on the same British Airways flight from Heathrow. It was the first time Liam had left London since becoming Alpha, so he would probably be worrying about a thousand different things, but he had been assured that the management of the pack was in capable paws, and he should just relax and try to enjoy his little brother's celebrations. It was a poignant mark of how much work had been done mending fences that the London wolves had sent Killian Jones, of all vampires, a congratulatory card.

Emma and her boys stood in the arrivals terminal, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, until they finally spotted them. There was much shouting, some staring, and a joyous muddle as Henry hugged Regina, Regina shook hands with Emma and Killian until he abruptly hugged (and startled) her, Killian hugged Liam for a very long time, Will kissed Killian on the cheek and hugged Emma, then said loudly, "So, where's a wolf get a good raw steak around here, eh?" causing alarmed travelers to edge away from him and everyone to make recriminatory shushing noises. Robin also hugged Henry, as the two of them were often in contact over their lives as vampire professors, Anita and Elsa made polite introductions, and finally the entire contingent of jet-lagged supernaturals retrieved their luggage, were loaded aboard the van they had rented for the occasion (as neither Henry's Toyota nor Emma's Bug could fit everyone) and ferried into downtown Boston. Regina looked out the window with a small half-smile, until she finally said, "It's good to be back."

Henry, who was driving, grinned at her in the rearview mirror. "It's good to have you back, Mom," he said. "Sidney's kept your place just the way you like it. Now I suppose the challenge is keeping everyone alive until Saturday. Even after everything we've been through, that might be a tall order."

* * *

It did prove to be something of a trial. Killian was staying with the rest of the family at Regina's, Emma half the week with David and Mary Margaret in Lexington and the other half with Zelena in Salem, and on the first night, she missed him so much she almost couldn't sleep. It was the first one they had spent apart since his return, and as she was always aware never to take the next one for granted, immortality or otherwise, it was just difficult to deal with it. She wryly supposed that it was a good sign for their impending nuptials if she was already ready to see him again after less than twelve hours away from him, but nonetheless, she did not intend to spend her bachelorette week pining over him. Wild parties and Chippendale's strippers bursting out of cakes were far from Emma's métier, so instead she was going to spend some quality time with both her mother figures. For Mary Margaret, that involved tea shops, antiquing, a romantic movie or two, heartfelt talks about hope and love, and just that same gentle, steady affection she had always given, pulling out the Nolan family albums to fill Emma in on any part of Henry's childhood she felt she had missed or didn't know enough about. It made her laugh until she cried, and then she just cried, as Mary Margaret sat next to her and held her hand until she stopped, wiped her eyes, and gave her a shaky smile, before letting the older woman just hug her for a long time and not say a word.

Zelena was different – but oddly, no less enjoyable. She had insisted on a full spa day for Emma on Friday, the day before the wedding, which – hey, full spa day that someone else was paying for, why not? But before that, they went out in Salem Wood at midnight, Zelena bewitched a pair of branches, and handed one to Emma. When she looked at it dubiously, Zelena informed her that she was supposed to ride it. To fly.

After a moment, Emma did as instructed, summoning her encyclopedic knowledge of Harry Potter films to mount said broom, push off – and whoop with unexpected delight as she soared straight up into the starlit sky, hair whipping. Zelena rocketed up behind her, and Emma proceeded to have the time of her life zooming around, pretending to score a Quidditch goal, barrel-racing through the clouds, looking down at the twinkling lights and the dark sea far below, and otherwise achieving the one thing that absolutely every kid dreamed of doing at some point, but would never actually be able to. Not unless they happened to have a vampire witch for a blood mother, and when they finally landed, windswept and exhilarated and giggling, Emma handed the branch back and said, "That was completely amazing. Thank you so much." She hesitated. "Mom."

Zelena's eyes were suspiciously bright as she de-enchanted the branches, then straightened up. She tried to say something, then stopped, shook her head, and just hugged Emma instead. Then they linked arms, walked out of the wood, and back up to the glowing house on the hilltop, no ruby slippers required. For all the sorcery, the supernatural, the exotic and rather monstrous nature of her family, the things Emma had gotten used to again after rejoining this world, sometimes the truest and deepest magic was the simplest, and the best.

* * *

Saturday was, to keep up the metaphor, the giant tornado walloping an extremely over-excitable and chickens-with-their-heads-cut-off Kansas, thus to swoop them off to the Land of Oz that was the wedding. The humans and wolves were getting up just as the vampires were going down for their nap at dawn; they'd have to be awake for the latter half of the day, and the formula for daylight shots had been refined until the effect was more like a fairly standard hangover rather than the Three-Day Bender Comedown of Doom (and since everyone was going to have a hangover anyway, it didn't really matter). Emma dashed home to shower and collect a few things and be present to meet the tent people arriving to set up the backyard pavilion with its fairy lights. Mary Margaret turned up soon after to take delivery of the flowers and the caterers. There was a brief and total panic as they realized they had forgotten a DJ, until Will announced that he was more than capable of filling the role and would be happy to do it for free. Liam was sent to manage things on the Navy Yard end, which was also an opportunity to let him get a look at the _Constitution,_ though he would be back by the afternoon to help Killian get ready. He and Will were Killian's groomsmen, while Mary Margaret and Ruby were Emma's bridesmaids; Henry would be walking his mother down the aisle and then going to stand as best man for his father. Zelena, as mother of the bride, had said she planned to wear a Kentucky Derby-style outrageous hat, cry, and drink a lot of chompagne, and Regina was officiating, so Emma had selected Henry's girlfriend, Violet, as her maid of honor. Considering that they were quite serious and might be the next ones at the altar (though Violet hadn't decided as to whether she wanted to be a vampire) it was a nice gesture of inclusion for her and the family.

The vampires were up a little past noon anyway, daylight or no daylight, and preparations kicked into full swing. Emma and her bridesmaids got dressed in her bedroom, Ruby snapping pictures every other second and posting them to the "Emma and Killian's Wedding!" gallery on Fangd, as for the finishing touch, Mary Margaret set the veil on her head and pinned it into place with the swan tiara. "There," she said, sounding choked. "Emma, you are so, so beautiful."

Emma grinned at her, refusing to tear up and potentially smudge her makeup. Then a car horn honked outside, signaling that Henry had arrived to pick them up, and Violet carefully gathered up Emma's veil, making sure it didn't drag on the way out. Henry had borrowed his brother Jimmy's black Audi sedan for the occasion, and he got out to open the rear door and hand Emma in like a chauffeur. Then once all the bridesmaids were in, he pulled out and headed into downtown Boston; it was just after dusk, and the light was blue and rich. Then he turned into Navy Yard, parked, helped Emma out, and made sure the women were escorted to their staging point next to the _Constitution,_ which also had fairy lights strung up on the deck and a small flowered archway to serve as the point of celebration. They stood waiting, hearing the chatter from the guests as they went aboard, while Henry stayed glued to his phone, exchanging text messages with Sidney, the master of ceremonies. At last, they were given the go-ahead, and as the music started overhead, he hissed, "Time. Let's go."

They stepped out of the tent as Liam and Will appeared in their tuxes, Liam to take Mary Margaret's arm and Will to take Ruby's, as they all grinned giddily at each other and sniffed a bit; Liam whistled at the sight of Emma and winked at her. The four of them went ahead, followed by Violet, Henry and Emma waiting for last. Then her son exhaled a deep breath and said, "Right. Ready to go marry my dad? You can still pull a Runaway Bride, you know."

Emma smiled up at him. "No chance," she said. "Let's go."

Henry offered her his arm, and they started sedately up the gangplank and onto the ship. There was a scrape of folding chairs as the guests got to their feet, and she held hard onto Henry, briefly afraid her knees were going to give out. But she was looking up, looking forward, and –

The expression on Killian Jones' face when he saw her for the first time, as they locked eyes, was a moment that Emma wanted to snatch up, fold away from the world, and take out every so often to cherish, to simply live in forever. She felt as if she was floating across the old boards, as if nothing and no one else existed, moment by moment, until they reached the flowered arch, Henry set her hand in Killian's, and they gazed into each other's eyes so long that they had to be prompted by a discreet cough from Regina to turn to her and begin the ceremony. And so, so simply, the mere confirmation of what they had been living all this time, as long as they wanted, until one day far in the future when they may at last choose to die together, they were married.

The rings were not silver (again, for obvious reasons) but platinum. Emma and Killian did not look away from each other as they slipped them on. They had written their own vows, which prompted quite a bit of more sniffling (Zelena, as promised, was going through several handkerchiefs). Then when at last Regina pronounced them married and told them that they could kiss, Killian caught Emma by the waist, dipped her deeply, and laid a world-bending one on her – just as fireworks started going off, in whistles and crackles and gouts of color in the dark sky over the waterfront. Everyone oohed and aahed, as it was clear from Henry's smirk that this was a special contribution he had planned without telling anyone.

Everything after that was a beautiful, impossible blur. They left the ship, got back into cars to drive to Emma and Killian's house, and she hugged everyone and accepted their congratulations, as Will vanished to change out of his tux and bowtie and into something more suited to partying. The bar and catering table were opened, glasses of champagne and chompagne alike poured for the toasts, and Henry made everyone cry with his speech, which was followed by Liam making them cry harder. David and Mary Margaret also spoke briefly, as did Regina, until the cake was finally cut and Killian, as promised, bloody well ate his piece as Emma kissed the frosting off him. Then she and David took the first dance, waltzing slowly on the floor, until David handed her off to Killian.

He linked his arms around her waist, drawing her close, as she rested her head on his chest. Despite its unfortunate association with _Twilight,_ both of them still liked the song "A Thousand Years," and if you couldn't play it at a vampire wedding, then really, when could you? Killian turned her by the hand, drew her close again, and they finished it to a rapturous round of applause from their watching family and friends. Then Will put on a playlist so he could join the fun, changing the mood from romantic to roof-raising, and they danced the night away.

Emma retreated briefly to change out of her wedding dress and into something cocktail-length, and she danced with Liam, Henry, Will, Zelena, Ruby, Robin, and then David again, while Killian danced with Regina, Violet, Elsa, Lily, Mary Margaret, and Anita, who was still looking wry (but happy) about the fact that Killian Jones was now her brother-in-law. The men had a dance-off, which Will won handily, and more cake and drinks were liberally partaken of. Then at last, well into the wee hours (though they had considerately warned the neighbors that there would be a party happening) the guests started trickling out with kisses and farewells, and Emma and Killian went inside to their bedroom. Someone (odds on Mary Margaret) had decorated it with roses, candlelight, and a turned-down bedcover, as well as a basket of much saucier accessories that were definitely from Ruby. They closed the door, looked at each other, then stepped into each other's arms, and kissed as if the world was ending.

Killian slowly and methodically undressed her, even as Emma returned the favor, until they stood in nothing but their skins, bare to each other in every way there was, her hands in his hair and his exploring every inch of her body, until he lifted her, carried her backwards, and they tumbled among the covers. He nipped at her ever so lightly with a fang, and she lifted her hips, urging him into her, drawing him home, until he beat within her as solidly and deeply as a heart, hard and cool and smooth. As she uttered a small, needy moan deep in her throat, joined him into her, no longer two in whatever way they had been, halves of a whole as they were, but one. For this, and for all the days and nights and weeks and months and years and perhaps even centuries to come, one.

 _Twilight,_ annoyingly, was right about one other thing.

They did in fact break the bed.


End file.
